


Lucky Dip

by DonnesCafe



Series: Lucky Dip AU-verse [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: ASiP AU, Angst, Aromantic spectrum, Arranged Marriage, Asexuality Spectrum, Brotherly Love, Different Meeting, Drug Use, Epistolary, Friendship, Lottery, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, season 1 AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-17
Updated: 2015-04-10
Packaged: 2018-03-13 12:56:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3382343
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DonnesCafe/pseuds/DonnesCafe
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In an alternate universe, people are put by lottery into more-or-less random pairings. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson have better things to do than pair up with some random stranger. But, as luck would have it, there's Lucky Dip.<br/>The prompt for this story comes from Destination Toast  <a href="http://destinationtoast.tumblr.com/post/111302612184/aus-i-have-never-seen%20">here</a>. She suggested an AU that contained “lottery-based arranged marriages — everyone is completely randomly assigned a partner by default (but you can cheat the system or change the odds with enough money.)”  The premise is a tiny bit different, but still based on her suggestion.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“No, Sherlock. Not under any circumstances. I will not purchase your exemption from the lottery.” He stood in the lounge at Sherlock’s Baker Street flat, braced on his ever-present umbrella. 

“You did it for yourself.” Sherlock looked up at his unwelcome visitor from his position draped on the sofa. 

“Yes, I did, brother mine,” Mycroft replied. “Since I did not waste my trust fund on drugs, and since I have a well-paying career and have developed some influence, I had that choice. Unfortunately, you have made different choices.” 

“I did not waste my trust fund on drugs. You had it frozen.” 

“You didn’t waste what remained by the time I intervened only because I had it frozen after it became quite clear that you would only use it to kill yourself.” 

“I am clean, Mycroft. I’ve been clean for over a year. I promised Lestrade. I’m working.” 

Mycroft sniffed. “For how long, Sherlock? Perhaps it would be good for you to have a partner. Besides, it is legally required that you initiate participation in the lottery on your twenty-fifth birthday. In case you haven’t been keeping track, that’s tomorrow.” 

“The work is enough,” Sherlock’s voice rose as he stood, crowding into his brother’s space. Mycroft didn’t flinch. 

“For how long?” he asked, his voice even. Almost pitying. 

“Get out,” Sherlock hissed. Mycroft didn’t. 

“Mummy and Daddy and I have discussed it. They won’t lend you the money either, so don’t bother calling them. It’s not just a matter of money in any case. Appearances must be preserved. Two sons from the same family…. It wouldn’t look good. Besides, we think perhaps having a partner would improve your situation. Stabilizing influence.” 

“I’m not a child, Mycroft. I don’t need a partner, a nanny, a caretaker, or an interfering older brother. You _know_ me. How could a random stranger possibly….” Sherlock couldn’t finish the humiliating sentence. No-one could stand him. Well, Mrs. Hudson seemed to like him, but then she seemed to like everybody. Everyone at Eton and Cambridge had hated him. He hadn’t made a single friend. Well, maybe Lestrade was a sort of friend in a way, but only on cases. Besides, the DI was already partnered. Unhappily, but there it was. Being partnered with a stranger would be horrible. “I just want my work and to be left _alone_.” 

“You can specify country, age range, gender, sexual preference. If you don’t get your own ticket tomorrow, the Agency will generate one for you. That one would be totally random.” 

Sherlock lowered his face into his long-fingered hands for long moments. He hated to beg. “Please, Mycroft,” he finally whispered, “spare me this. I’m not… suited… for a relationship. Please.” 

When he looked up, his brother had gone. 

Sod Mycroft. Sod everything. He wondered if his old dealer was doing business in the same bar. 

~~~~~  


“You did _what_ ? “ 

John Watson hoped devoutly that he had heard wrong. Satellite phone calls were rare at the forward Army medical base in Helmand province. What sort of emergency had his sister claimed in order to get through to him? 

“Harry, are you there? Harry?” Nothing except static for several seconds. 

“I… I…,” her voice was faint. “I was….” Then nothing again. 

“You were drunk, weren’t you? How could you put me into the lottery? I have an exemption as long as I’m on active duty. I had an _exemption_ , Harry.” 

“I thought I was using my I.D. in the machine. OK? Yes, I was drunk. I’ve been drunk since Clara died, alright? It’s been six months. I’m lonely. You’re not here. So I decided to try the lottery again. But I put your I.D. in by mistake.” 

John had given his sister a copy of his electronic ID so that she could exercise power of attorney for him in England. And in case of his death. He hadn’t been back to England in years. 

“John, I didn’t mean to. I was….” 

“Drunk, yeah. I got that part, Harry. Bloody hell. What did you… specify?” He was going to end up paired with a lesbian in the Midlands. What a cock up. The use of his electronic power of attorney indicated his choice to waive his service exemption and put himself into the lottery. Unpartnering was rare. He could claim fraud, but that would involve a complicated, expensive court case. In England. 

He could hear Harry crying. “I didn’t… John, I was lonely. And I was…” 

“Drunk, yeah. You did a Lucky Dip, didn’t you?” 

“Johnny, I’m so sorry.” 

John scrubbed his tired eyes with a shaking hand. A Lucky Dip was a computer generated ticket with no specifications. Lucky Dips were for people who didn’t give a shit, people who felt insanely lucky, or people who refused to even go get their own ticket. If you refused to participate, the government did a Lucky Dip for you and texted you a copy of the numbers. 

The system was invented in the Eurozone as a response to concerns about falling birth rates and family instability harming the lives of children. People were getting married too late, if at all, and divorcing too quickly. Sociologists pointed out that people weren’t very good at picking their own partners or being bound by ethical or religious conventions of loyalty (hence the skyrocketing divorce rates). The Eurocrats decided in their infinite wisdom that they would change up the game. Every sane, relatively able bodied adult was to enter the lottery on their twenty-fifth birthday. If they weren’t matched that year, they got a new lottery ticket until their number came up. Partners were legally bound for life, except in rare cases of fraud or abuse. 

They were under no obligation to have sex with their partners or even be friendly. They were simply required to live together at least six months of every year and function as an economic unit and a stable home for the partners and any children. Counselors were liberally provided. Partners had a right to make their own arrangements for sex outside the partnership if they wished. All children were legally bound by contract before birth to one partnership. The biological mother had priority, but she could give up her rights to the biological father by contract. Sometimes fathers sued for custody in the family courts and won. No parental ties outside partnerships. 

Surprisingly, there was no general uprising against the system. People were, when polled, dissatisfied with current family arrangements. Perhaps they were willing to take the chance that nothing could be worse than their own sorry family experiences and romantic histories. It promised, and largely gave, a certain welcome stability to life. Arranged partnerships seemed to work just as well as, if not better than, romantic ones long-term. There was a fair amount of objection from various religious quarters, but it died down surprisingly quickly. Society adjusted around the new arrangements. 

John felt a small, reluctant smile lift a corner of his mouth. Well, truth was he hadn’t done too well with his own picks in the romance department. He might not manage to come back from Afghanistan anyway, so maybe it was all moot. He liked danger, and he intended to stay in the Army and in war zones as long as he could. It made him feel alive. He was an adrenaline junkie, he admitted to himself. He had no intention of settling down in the suburbs in… well, wherever his match-up might live. Could be anywhere from Helsinki to Brussels. Bloody Harry… well. He would cross that bridge if and when he came to it. 

Speaking of Harry, she was still crying on the satellite phone. He took a deep breath. 

“It’s ok, Harry. Who knows, maybe the Lucky Dip will be lucky for me. Match me up with a gorgeous blond with great tits who’s hotter than hell. What do you think?” 

He heard her shaky laugh over all those miles. “I love you so much, John. Maybe it will turn out alright?” 

“Maybe it will. Look, do me a favor. Since you’ve randomly chosen my life partner for me, can I ask you to do something for me?” 

“I will, John. I know what you want. I promise. This time I will go into rehab and get sober. I promise.” 

“Love you, Harry.” He said, trying not to think of how many times she had promised exactly that. 

“Love you, too. Stay alive. Promise me.” 

“I promise,” he said. Of course he couldn't promise her that, but it sounded reassuring. He heard choppers coming in. No rest for the weary. 

“Got to go. Wounded.” He cut the connection. He hadn’t even asked her to send him the lottery ticket, but it probably didn’t matter. He assumed he would be notified if he was matched. 

“John.” Bill Murray was standing at the opening of the com tent. “This one sounds bad. John, are you ok?” 

Something must have shown in his face. “I’m coming,” said John. 

~~~~~  


His dealer was, indeed, still operating out of the Black Hand off the Marylebone Road. Heroin was more expensive than it had been the year before. As he made his purchase and went back onto the cold street, he tried to shop the shivering that had started in anticipation of the drug, the danger. The promises betrayed. 

He almost dropped the bag in the gutter. He wanted to continue the work, and even one hit was dangerous. He knew it. But the thought of the control over his life being taken from him, just when he had restored it, was too much. Partnered with some random idiot. He tried to think. He could go to America, of course. People who really objected to the Eurozone Partners Act usually just emigrated to places that had retained traditional family law and customs. But the thought of leaving Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson, the skull, the cases…no. He’d just use this once, to help him cope. Then he would wait to be partnered. His stomach roiled. Sometimes it took several years for your lottery pick to come up. It was more or less random, after all. Maybe he’d be lucky and have some time before he was shackled to the Random Idiot, or maybe he’d be dead before then. It could go either way. 

When he woke the next morning on the floor, he looked at the fresh needle track in his arm. He felt the craving rise in him. No. No. No. The work. It was more important. This was just a one-time thing. 

Oh, god. It was his birthday. Lottery day. He’d just let the damned Agency pick for him. What did it matter? He struggled to sit up, bracing his back against the sofa. He looked down at his arm again. It did matter, he realized. If the only choice he had was whether or not to pick his own doom, he would at least do it himself. 

He showered, dressed, and went downstairs. Speedy’s had lottery machines. The Partner Lottery was just another machine among those for Lotto and EuroMillions. He ordered tea and a partner card. The young man behind the counter handed him the card and a stubby pencil. 

“Fill it out,” he said. “I’ll get your tea.” 

Sherlock looked down at the check boxes. He could pick Great Britain or several other European countries. Age ranges. Male, female, trans. Gay, lesbian, straight, bisexual, asexual. He suddenly felt bile rise in his throat. He swallowed and tried to breath, but his chest felt tight. Maybe he’d just go back to the drugs after all. 

Suddenly he checked one box. 

The young man handed him his paper cup of English Breakfast. Sherlock handed him the card and his electronic I.D. 

The man looked at the card. “Lucky Dip? Wow, I’ve never seen anyone choose that. Living dangerously, mate.” 

When Sherlock said nothing, the clerk shrugged, swiped his I.D., and punched one button on the machine. A paper receipt emerged from the machine, covered with letters and numbers. "Your funeral," the young man muttered, almost too low for Sherlock to hear, and held out the I.D. and paper. 

Indeed, he thought. He snatched the I.D. and receipt, crammed both into a trouser pocket, and left the restaurant clutching his tea with both hands. Willing his hands not to shake. What did it matter, after all?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little brotherly interference in the process...

Mycroft tried to concentrate on the file in front of him. He failed. His concentration rarely failed him, but it was January the sixth. Sherlock’s birthday. They rarely acknowledge such things, so any gift or visit would be rudely rejected. But his curiosity kept niggling at the back of his consciousness, coming between him and the decision about the list of potential ambassadors. Would Sherlock make his own choices or let the Agency make a random pick for him in protest? And which would be more disastrous? 

He sighed and touched a button on the intercom on his massive desk. 

“Sir?” 

“I’ll have tea,” he said. “And make an appointment for me with Sir Julian Wynter-Hyde.” 

“Right away, sir. Here or at the Diogenes?” 

“I’ll go to him. At his earliest convenience.” 

There was the slightest hesitation on the other end of the intercom. He rarely visited other people in their offices. They came to him. Except for Her Majesty, of course. 

“Of course, sir. Assam today?” 

“Fine,” he said. “And bring me the intelligence on the Syria situation with the tea.” 

~~~~~  


“Mycroft, I would have come to you…..” He and Sir Julian went back to Eton, two misfits who had done well. Very, very well. 

Mycroft motioned him back into his luxurious leather chair and sank into the one across the desk. 

“It’s personal, Julie. I didn’t want to presume.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous, Myc. Anything I can do, I will. What is it?” 

“My brother Sherlock turned twenty-five today.” 

“I see. An exemption? Of course. But you didn’t even come to me for your own.” 

“I didn’t want to bother you, and it was unnecessary. No, this is a bit more complicated.” 

Sir Julian stood, turned to an elegant Georgian sideboard behind his desk, and poured whiskey into two heavy cut-crystal tumblers. He handed one across the desk to Mycroft, sat down, and took a sip. 

“What can I do to help?” 

Mycroft swallowed a fair measure of the whiskey. Excellent. On the light side. Smoke, peat, just a hint of salt. Glen Garioch, if he wasn’t mistaken. “You always had good taste in spirits,” he said. 

Sir Julian smiled. “Remember the Jameson’s we liberated from the Senior Common Room?” 

“As if it were yesterday,” Mycroft said, a rare smile lighting up his face. “My brother, Julie, is difficult. Brilliant, perhaps on the autism spectrum though never diagnosed, difficulties with relationships. Drug use.” 

“So you want a particular partner for him? One you think can manage him?” 

Mycroft shifted uncomfortably at the word “manage.” 

“I love my brother. I want him to be happy. Is it ridiculous of me to hope that a partner might help him? I'm not asking for a particular partner. Just a match that might not be ruinous to both parties.” 

“I have a younger brother, too, Mycroft. I suppose you took that into account in your calculations. Oh, don’t bother to look offended. You always thought three steps ahead of the best of us. So you want us to bollocks up the randomness of the partnering just a bit? A slight weighting to fortune's wheel? You know, chance seems to work just as well for most people.” 

“ _Singuli nos nostrae ipsorum fortunae aliquando imperamus_ ," Mycroft countered. "You’re speaking as a mathematician and a sociologist, not as an older brother.” Sir Julian had gotten a double first at Oxford. That, along with several well-respected books and some family connections, had made him head of the Agency. 

“ _Non astra, mi Brute, sed nosmet ipsi inculpandi, si inferiores existimus_ ," Sir Julian replied, laughing. "Old Nesbit would be astonished that we both remember that bit. He'd be even more astonished that we chose not to be underlings. Well, you’re perfectly correct in assuming I rigged my brother’s pick as well. It’s worked out quite well. So, do you think he’s picked yet? Let’s see.” 

Fifteen minutes and another tumbler each of scotch later, a pretty young women brought in a single sheet of paper and handed it to Sir Julian. 

“Bugger me,” he said. Mycroft felt cold suddenly. 

“What did he do?” 

“Lucky Dip,” said Sir Julian. “Is he an idiot, does he resent you that much, or is it just that he has nerve to spare?” 

Mycroft sighed. “All of the above? Is it too late to fix this?” 

“Hasn’t been matched yet, so no. I’ll freeze the numbers, send you sets of possible matches for you to go through. Your choice. Once you decide, we’ll… well, rig is an unpleasant word, isn’t it? Adjust the outcome. I’m just giving you other Lucky Dips, though. There are a surprising number, and it wouldn’t be fair to bollocks it up for people who have some clue as to what they want.” 

“Of course,” said Mycroft. “I can’t tell you how grateful….” Sir Julian waved him silent. 

“Glad to help. Take me to dinner at that new place that’s opened near you in Belgravia and we’re quits.” 

“Done.” They shook hands and each went back to their respective work. 

~~~~~  


The dinner had been pleasurable. Julie shared his delight in excellent food, ridiculously expensive wine, and unobtrusive service. As they waited for cabs on the street, Sir Julian passed him a leather portfolio an inch or so thick. Mycroft thanked him and returned home. 

It was now close to midnight, and he sat in his study with a snifter of brandy and papers and photographs spread around him. Julie’s note at the top of the stack had just said, “Twenty to start. Let me know if you want to look at more. J.” 

He divided the material into men and women. He had always assumed that Sherlock was as gay as he was, but when he examined that assumption he realized that it was just that. Perhaps he was asexual. They had never discussed it, and Mycroft wasn’t sure whether Sherlock’s lack of sexual history, or at least any history of which he was aware, indicated asexuality, lack of libido, or simply fear. He had certainly never expressed the slightest interest that Mycroft had been able to detect in any woman. Or man. 

He looked at the picture of one particularly comely auburn-haired woman. Pianist, painter. A lovely, vulnerable mouth. He touched the picture’s mouth. No. Too vulnerable for Sherlock. It would be a waste. Why in heaven’s name hadn’t she specified sexual orientation in her pick? Or anything. Why take such a chance? There was a story there. He supposed there was a story in every photo and piece of paper on his desk. 

“Go in peace,” he said to her photograph. He felt strangely protective of her. He wouldn’t wish Sherlock on the woman. It came to him with sudden force that he wasn’t just playing God with Sherlock’s life, but with all these other lives laid out before him. But then he did that almost every day, didn't he? 

He stiffened his spine and his resolve. He would go with his instinct. Sherlock was not straight. He set aside the ten women and turned to the men. 

Past one o’clock, and he had narrowed it down to two. Victor Trevor. University of London lecturer. Handsome. Quite beautiful, really, in a pale, fine-boned way. Twenty-eight. Not Mycroft’s cup of tea, but that was another story. Biologist, so they’d have things in common. Subscriber to the London Symphony. Gregarious. Lots of friends. Why, again, had he chosen not to choose? Really, if he tried to second guess everyone, he would be here all night. On paper, a good match for Sherlock, if anyone was. 

John Watson. Eight years older than his brother. Not handsome. A bit weather-beaten. Not fair, Mycroft thought. The man had been serving Queen and Country in the desert regions. Quite heroically. Why had he given up his exemption…? He looked career military, and many of them chose not to partner because the residency requirement could be difficult to manage. Mycroft looked at the Ormula clock on the mantel. Two o’clock. 

Something about the man’s face. Not brilliant, but he was a doctor, so not extraordinarily stupid. Something about the set of the mouth. Mycroft hated relying on instinct. It was so plebian. He put his left hand on John Watson’s face, his right on Victor Trevor’s. His right hand, almost on its own, turned Trevor’s handsome countenance face-down on the mahogany surface. 

“Welcome to the family, Dr. Watson,” he said. “And good luck.” He turned off the desk lamp and made his way to bed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~  


The Latin phrases are from Henry Denison's Latin translation of Shakespeare's Julius Caesar - sometimes used as a resource exercise for schoolboys learning Latin. Mycroft: "Men at some time are master of their fates." Sir J: "The fault, my Brutus, is not in our stars, but in ourselves, that we are underlings."


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock receives notice of his match. On Valentine's Day. Note change in rating - now Mature for dubious consent and exploration of sexual topics.

Sherlock promised himself that the one hit of heroin would be the only one. The last one. The partnering nonsense had shaken him to the core, but he had so far resisted the almost overwhelming urge for another hit. He hounded Lestrade for cases, paced the floor, and bit his fingernails down to the quick. He didn’t know whether he wanted the partnering to take months and years, or whether it would be better just to get it over with. He seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for the blow to fall. 

He played his violin at all hours, until Mrs. Hudson came up to the flat at three o’clock one morning, interrupted a passionate rendition of the opening chaconne to Bartók’s Sonata 124, and threatened to evict him or call his brother. 

“You wouldn’t,” he said, the bow still suspended over the strings. He didn’t think she would. Would she? 

“At my time of life, I need my sleep, young man. This has to stop. You need to talk to someone about whatever is bothering you.” 

“Nothing is bothering me.” He put the violin and bow down carefully on the desk. 

“What nonsense,” she said briskly. “I know you. You’re like a cat on hot bricks. Worse than usual, I mean. I’m bringing up tea and biscuits, and you’re going to tell me what the trouble is.” 

So he told her. About the partnering. The Lucky Dip. Some of his fears. Things he had never told anyone. 

“Oh, Sherlock, it could be anyone. How could you not even…,” she stopped suddenly and took a thoughtful nibble at a shortbread square. 

“It’s none of my business if you don’t want to say. But have you ever… been with anyone?” 

He felt a flush spread up his face. “It’s complicated,” he said. It was… complicated. “What if this person hates me? Everyone else does. I just want my work, and I don’t want to be distracted.” He refused to meet his landlady’s kind eyes. He looked down into his half-drunk cup of tea. 

Her hand came across the table to cover one of his. “Everyone doesn’t hate you. You’re just a bit difficult, is all. You don’t take the trouble to try to make people like you.” 

“I tried at school. I always seemed to say the wrong thing. I never understood what people expected.” 

“Well, you’re a grown man now. You’re smarter than anyone I’ve ever seen or heard of. You saved me, Sherlock. You cared when no-one else did.” 

“It was a challenging puzzle.” It had been his first successful case. He had been a twenty-one year old junkie in rehab in Florida. Mycroft had thought it was better to get him far away from his usual sources of supply. He had seen an item in the paper about a drug lord on trial. About his wife. Something hadn’t added up, and he had called Martha Hudson. It was just as accurate to say that she had saved him, although he had never told her that. It was the only reason he hadn’t killed himself. It was the real beginnings of his professional life. 

“You were concerned about me as a person, Sherlock, whether you wanted to say so or not. I know you pretend that you don’t care about people, but you do. And you’re as beautiful as a painting in a museum, so…” 

His eyes flew up at that. She laughed. “I may be old, Sherlock Holmes, but I’m not dead. I can still appreciate a handsome man when I see one. You’ll figure it out. Use that brain of yours. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do, besides live with this person half the year. Just…” 

He turned his hand over underneath hers and squeezed her hand. It was soft and warm, and somehow comforting. “What?” 

“Just don’t assume this person can’t like you, that you can’t like them. You never know. Just don’t get your back up and offend them from the get-go. You have to take it easy on us lesser mortals.” 

He lifted her hand and kissed it. She laughed and removed her hand from his grasp. “Don’t think you can charm me that easily. No more violin in the middle of the night, or I really will call Mycroft.” He carried the tea things down the stairs for her, and wished her good night. 

Later, he sat folded around himself in his chair, wrapped in his blue robe, trying to hold the images at bay. He couldn’t. What he hadn’t been able to tell Mrs. Hudson was that he had never been with anyone he loved. Or wanted. He wasn’t even sure he could love or want anyone. Perhaps he wasn’t wired that way. He had what he supposed were the usual, biological sexual urges, but he took care of them privately and as quickly as possible. He thought of them as an inconvenience. He appreciated male beauty, but he had never been close enough to another man to know whether that would lead to sexual desire for a particular person or not. He had never gotten within a mile of friendship in his life, let alone love. Mycroft had always told him that caring was not an advantage. He had no data either way. It was, as he had told Mrs. Hudson, complicated. 

There had been some embarrassing propositions at uni. Men and women who didn’t know him but seemed to fancy him on sight. That had repelled him. One late night Seb had invited him to his room for a glass of wine. He had gone. He was tired and lonely that night. But when Seb roughly pulled him close and kissed him, he jerked back involuntarily. He hated the feeling of hands groping him, of Seb’s hot, wet mouth on him. Seb was like all the others, and they all hated him. 

“Damn, you’re a cold fish,” Seb said, still holding him close. He could feel Seb's erection against his thigh. “Damned pretty, though. Thought there might be a good fuck in your skinny arse. Forget it.” He thrust Sherlock away from him suddenly. He had stumbled and left without a word, humiliated and confused. He remembered the rest of that night. He couldn’t lock it away. Cold and shaking, unable to sleep. Looking out his window at the snow in the quad as grey dawn filled it, thinking Seb was right about him. Maybe he just wasn’t made for human contact. 

Soon after that, he left Cambridge. Mycroft had been furious, his parents concerned and confused. He found a dreadful, cheap apartment in Montague street. Found drugs. Drugs made his life more bearable. Alleviated boredom, quieted his mind when it raced without an object of focus, covered over memories. He needed the drugs. When Mycroft noticed this, he blocked Sherlock’s access to his trust fund, and gave him an allowance instead. Humiliating. 

He needed more money. Men and women seemed to want him, and it had been his only currency. Men only after one disastrous try with a woman. His lack of arousal on that occasion had been painfully obvious. He gave and received fellatio and hand jobs to earn the money he needed for drugs. He, sometimes violently, refused pressure for anything more than that. So, yes, he had ‘been with’ many someones. 

He tried to disassociate from it as much as possible, and he had been high during most of these encounters. He couldn’t quite erase all the images and remembered sensations. Throat filled, knees scraping concrete or cobbles, the feeling of a hot mouth on him in a cold alleyway, the slick slide of tongue, hands tight on his arse. He was capable of being aroused, capable of orgasm. But did he want it? He certainly hadn’t wanted it with any of the men he had serviced. The best thing about getting clean had been that he didn’t need to do that anymore. Why couldn’t he just be left alone? He was clean now, living in Mrs. Hudson’s cosy building in Baker Street. He had a profession, one that he had created himself. Why couldn’t he just be left alone? 

~~~~~  


The blow fell on February 14th. If Mycroft hadn’t washed his hands of the whole affair, he would have suspected Mycroftian interference and irony. Mrs. Hudson brought up the registered letter with a tray of tea and his favorite cinnamon biscuits. 

“Sherlock, dear, it’s come.” Her voice was nervous, and she didn’t look at him as she set down the tray on the table beside the red chair. “It’s from the Agency. Do you want me to stay?” 

He stood up abruptly from the kitchen table where he was working on an analysis of tobacco ash, then felt dizzy. He couldn’t speak, so he shook his head. 

“I’ll leave the tea, then. Come down if you want to talk.” 

He ignored the tea and biscuits, ripped open the envelope, and unfolded the one sheet. A picture fell face down on the floor. His partner. He couldn’t stop his hands shaking. He sat down on the floor cross-legged, turned the picture over. He took the sheet and picture, and tried to focus. 

It was a man. Older. Uniform. Probably his official I.D. picture. Serious, tanned, skin looked a bit weather-damaged. Captain’s insignia. Something else. He squinted. Caduceus. Royal Army Medical Corps. Afghanistan or Iraq? Why had he given up his exemption for a random pairing? Was he trying to get out of service? He looked at the face again. No. The eyed stared straight into the camera. Very decided-looking mouth and chin. This was a serious person. Good god, what had he done? 

He unfolded the sheet of paper. The Agency didn’t give you much, did they? Name, birth date, schooling, current employment, sexual preference. 

Captain John H. Watson. Sherlock looked at the birth date. Eight years older. Medical degree from the University of London, residency at Barts Hospital. Royal Army Medical Corps. Currently stationed with the Third Medical Battalion, Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers. Afghanistan. Sexual preference: none listed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at that last one. Did that mean that he was asexual or pansexual? If so, why not list? Or did it mean that he had taken a Lucky Dip? 

He looked at the face again. At the firm chin, the serious mouth, the wrinkles in the broad forehead. He didn’t know whether to feel fear or hope. Just for a moment, hope won out. Perhaps this John Watson had taken a Lucky Dip because something had forced his hand, and he didn't want a partnership at all. Career Army. As unlikely as it seemed, maybe they were brothers under the skin. Men who just wanted to be left alone with their work. But then why had he given up his exemption? Unwise to theorize ahead of available data. He’d just have to contact the man and ask him.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John gets notification of his match. Holy hell, what has Harry gotten him into?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> e-Blueys are, as far as I can tell, hybrid mail used by the British Army. Letters are sent by internet to theatres of war, downloaded, and (often) printed on blue, sealable paper, and delivered to recipients. They are encoded, thus the posited confidential handling of the one in the story. Pictures can be included. :)

“Captain, the Colonel wants you to come to his office.” 

Jerry was the Colonel’s aide and Battalion mascot. He was a cheery kid from Glasgow who was even shorter than John. He had a shock of red hair, a nose sprinkled with freckles, and good taste in porn and whiskey. John liked him, but not at the moment. He had caught John on his way to his tent after nine straight hours in surgery. 

“Can’t it wait? I’m knackered.” 

“Yeah, I can see that,” Jerry said. “Sorry, you got a bluey. Confidential. Eyes only. It came six hours ago, but he didn’t want to interrupt. Sorry, mate. Probably shouldn’t wait any longer.” 

The unspoken implication was that blueys marked confidential were rarely good news. Ordinarily, they came into the HQ computer center, were printed out, and got left on your bunk. His heart sank. Had something happened to Harry? 

He gestured to his blood-stained scrubs. “Ok. Let me change, then I’ll be right there.” 

He trotted to his billet, shucked his stained and sweaty scrubs, splashed his face with cold water. He looked in the mirror. God, he looked old. Standing for hours up to your elbows in the guts of a kid who finally died anyway would do that. Had Harry finally managed to kill herself? He scrubbed the rough white towel over his face and didn’t look in the mirror again. He dressed in clean fatigues, straightened his spine, and went to the Colonel’s tent. 

“Watson, come in.” Billingsly stood and gestured to his desk chair. “I've got the message up on my computer. It’s still encrypted. Needs your code. Sit here and download the thing. I’m going to the mess tent. Take as long as you need.” 

John nodded. Cleared his throat. “Thank you sir.” Billingsly left. He was a good officer, cared about his troops. He knew as well as John that confidential messages to individual troops were rare. John sat down, took a deep breath, and put in his mail code. 

**TO: 774862553 CAPT John H. Watson, 3 Med Bat Gp, 5th Northumberland Fusiliers, BFPO 772**

**FROM: The Agency for Administration, Eurozone Partners Act Bureau, U.K.**

**Congratulations! You have been matched in accordance with your transaction dated 07.01.2007. The date of the match is 14.02.2007. Please record this date for legal purposes. As you know you are required to co-habit with your match for six calendar months during each year, your year being marked from your anniversary of 14.02.2007 in accordance with Eurozone Reg. EuZ Stat 384.11 ( _Uniform Eurozone Partnership Act of 1999,_ see also _U.K. Covenant on Family Law_ , amended, sec. 4473).**

**We have attached what we hope will be useful information on your new partner and suggest that you contact them soon. Again, congratulations!**

Well, that was quick. John had heard it sometimes took months to be matched. Just his luck, in the middle of a two-year combat tour. How would that even work? He blinked at the attachment line. There was a word document and a jpeg. Picture, then. He felt strangely reluctant to click on either one. Somehow, he felt that until he opened those documents it wouldn’t be real in spite of the cheerful bureaucratic nonsense staring him in the face. 

Then he noticed that the Colonel had left a half-filled bottle of scotch and a glass out by the computer screen. A clean glass. Billingsly was a good man. John poured out two fingers of scotch and drank half of it down at one gulp. 

Picture first. Why not. He clicked. 

“Good god,” he said aloud. He picked up the glass, downed the rest of the whiskey. It burned down his throat, and he coughed. He poured out another finger. The face staring back at him from the screen was… beautiful. He hadn’t thought much about male beauty, wasn’t much inclined that way, but there was no other word for it. It was a man, a young man. He was scowling into the camera. Likely his official I.D. picture. He looked otherworldly. That was the only word that John could put to that face. Long, dark hair curled onto his collar and almost into his eyes. The eyes. Some brilliant shade of blue-green with a tiny dot of brown in one. The tawny imperfection didn't mar the extraordinary effect of the brilliant eyes. It somehow enhanced it. The young man was pale as a ghost. His cheekbones were sharp and high, with hollows shadowed beneath. 

The face was striking, but something in John’s medical training made him look at it even more closely. He took a sip of the whiskey. Much too thin. Eyes slightly red-rimmed. Mouth a full, lovely bow, but so pale that his lips barely stood out from the white skin surrounding them. Too white. John narrowed his eyes. This man wasn’t well. Drugs? Anorexia? Anaemia? Something else? Well, this was going to be interesting. He clicked the word attachment, and it opened, covering the face. 

Sherlock Holmes. What the hell kind of name was that? Education: Eton and Cambridge. OK then, posh name, posh education. But he hadn’t taken a degree. And his first impression had been correct. The man – boy? – was only twenty-five. No current employment listed. What did that mean? He thought about Eton and Cambridge. Trust fund? He thought about the face. The man should be at least a model, but nothing. Rent boy? He thought about the almost skeletal face and red-rimmed eyes. Drug addict? Drug addicted rent boy? Damn Harry. Really, damn her. He looked at the space for sexual preference. None listed. What the bloody hell did that mean? Maybe he had done the same thing that Harry had done – gotten high and gotten a Lucky Dip. 

He clicked back onto the picture and lifted his glass in a silent toast. He could imagine Rent Boy’s chagrin when he had gotten John Watson’s picture. Probably not at all what he had in mind, if anything had been in his mind besides his latest fix. Well, he had six months before he had to live with Pretty Posh. One never knew in combat zones. Maybe they’d never meet. 

He closed the email and went out into the cold, desert night. He stood for a while outside his billet, looking up at the stars. John Watson was a fair man, and a kind one when he could be. Maybe he should contact the kid tomorrow, see what his story was. Not fair to judge before he talked to him, was it? He thought again about the beautiful, bitter face staring out from the computer screen. Email was difficult to manage out here, but Sherlock Holmes might be just as apprehensive about this whole business as he was. He’d try to find time to email him tomorrow.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First contact.

Things seldom went according to plan for John Watson. That was the downside of being addicted to danger. Whenever things went to hell, as they often did in Afghanistan, he carefully reminded himself of that. He had chosen this, continued to choose it. He volunteered to head the trauma team airlifted to the crash site of an American Chinook helicopter. His Battalion was closest to the site, so they were able to get there before the Yank medics. He thought of nothing but triage and battlefield surgery for thirty bloody hours. 

When he finally got back to base, he reported to the Colonel. Ten dead, fourteen saved at the site, six stablilized and airlifted to Bath Hospital. Outcome unknown. Commendations to the team. He finally made it to his tent, exhausted and depressed, already second-guessing some of the calls he made. If he had only gotten to that young Lieutenant earlier. But he thought he had more time with that one. Misjudgment, as it turned out. His family would never know that the young man with the straw-blond hair had bled out into his intestinal cavity because Captain John Watson had put him one space too far down in the line for surgery. 

He dropped down onto his bunk and bent to unlace his boots. Half-hidden under the cot was a bluey. Must have gotten knocked off in all the comings and goings of his mates. Oh, god. He remembered Sherlock Holmes. He had meant to try to communicate with the man. He finished taking off his boots, picked up the sealed, tri-folded, light blue page, and opened it. 

**TO: jwatson97@3medBFPO772.gov.uk**

**FROM: sholmestec@apis.co.uk**

**SUBJECT: situation**  


**DATE: 16.02.2007**  


 **Captain Watson, I assume you have been apprised of the fact that we have been partnered. I can only hope that the news is as unwelcome to you as it is to me, but it seems there is no avoiding the interference of the bureaucrats of the Eurozone. I have done research and discovered that the eBluey is perhaps the most accessible form of communication since you are currently serving in an active theatre of war.**

**I infer from your photograph and the scanty information provided to me the following:**

**(1) You are a career Army medical officer, most probably a trauma surgeon given your training and posting. It is unlikely that you would have given up your ability to defer partnering in your current circumstances. Therefore, I deduce that you suffer from interference in your affairs, likely by a relative. I speak from experience concerning interfering relatives.**

**(2) You are relatively intelligent given your education and chosen profession.**

**(3) Your priority, at present at least, is your work. Again, this speaks to a coerced or deliberately random partnering.**

**(4) You do not specify sexual preference in a partner. Again, coerced or deliberately random partnering. I assume this means you chose (or someone chose for you) a Lucky Dip.**

**(5) Given all of the above, I assume that you are open to a clear and honest conversation about how we can formulate a rational and mutually agreeable understanding about the best way to proceed in a situation that neither of us desires.**

**I further assume that the email/eBluey system is our best form of communication given your current situation. Correct me if I have misunderstood any of the above. In any case, perhaps the sooner we discuss our unpleasant situation, the better. You may contact me at the above address or by letter at 221B Baker Street, London NW1 6XE.**

**Sherlock Holmes**  


John read the document carefully. Twice. It was odd, and certainly surprising. The voice in that email seemed totally at odds with the picture that John had studied, or at least with the assumptions John had made about the man. He didn’t sound like a rent boy. Or a druggie or a spoiled trust-fund wanker. He sounded quite strange, but in an interesting way. 

John felt badly that he couldn’t email the man… Man, he realized, not boy. A boy hadn’t written that email. That was encouraging, at least. He felt badly that he couldn’t email the man now and reassure him that he would make no demands on him beyond that required by law of them both. But he was sagging with fatigue. He lay down on the bunk, still fully clothed except for his boots, and fell into a deep sleep. The bluey was still held loosely in one hand. 

~~~~~  


There were no emergencies or newly-wounded the next day, so after John did rounds on the few soldiers still in their makeshift battalion hospital waiting discharge or transport to Bath, he asked for an appointment with Colonel Billingsly. 

“Was it bad news?” The Colonel motioned him into the chair across his desk. 

“In a way,” John replied. He sat and tried to think how to phrase this. “I’ve been partnered, sir. With a bloke back in London.” 

“You’ve got another year to serve. Why the hell… Sorry, John. Why did you give up your waiver?” 

“I didn’t.” There was no way to sugarcoat it. “My sister, Harry. She’s my only family left. She has problems with alcohol. She lost her partner months ago. She got drunk one night, tried for a new partnering, and put my I.D. in instead.” 

“Damn,” the Colonel said. “That’s… a real mess, isn’t it? What are you going to do? I’ll help any way I can, but I’d hate to lose you here. Can’t really afford to, if it comes to that. Experienced combat surgeons aren’t exactly thick on the ground.” 

“That’s why I wanted to talk to you, sir. I don’t want to leave the service at all, and I especially don’t want to leave before this tour is up. I’m not sure what my options are. And I haven’t even talked to this man. He sent me a bluey while I was out at the crash site. Fortunately, he sounds like a sensible person. I wanted to ask if I could email him now. I know it’s difficult to get time, but….” 

Billingsly interrupted. “Of course. You can use Jer’s computer in his cubby. He’s out doing something or other anyway. The sooner we can get this straightened out, the better.” 

So John found himself sitting at the computer. He straightened his shoulders, ignored the butterflies in his gut, and started typing. 

**TO: sholmestec@apis.co.uk**

**FROM: jwatson97@3medBFPO772.gov.uk**

**SUBJECT: RE: situation**  


**DATE: 20.02.2007**  


 **I’m sorry I haven’t replied to your earlier communication. I was off-base at the site of a helicopter crash and didn’t receive it until I came back last night.**

**That was pretty amazing, actually. The things you seemed to know about me. Right on all counts. But how in hell did you know about the Lucky Dip? It was my sister, Harry. I love her, but she’s had a difficult life. Alcoholic, partner died. Ovarian cancer. Anyway, she thought she was ready for another partner. Put my I.D. in by mistake. So, yeah, interfering family. Who’s yours?**

**So you were correct. I didn’t, and don’t, want a partnering. I am a Royal Army trauma surgeon, and I want to keep it that way. I’m not sure we have any options, though. You sound like a very intelligent person, so I’m open to any suggestions you have. I don’t think I can get this partnering revoked on the basis of fraud. I don’t want to get Harry in trouble, can’t afford a court case. Any ideas?**

**Ideally, even if we have to remain partnered, I would prefer to get some sort of delay until my deployment is up. That will be in a little less than a year. I don’t have time to research it – things are pretty frantic here, what with the increased insurgency. I’m open to suggestions, so let me know how you want to proceed.**

**Whatever happens, please be assured that I have no expectations or assumptions about our partnering. In fact, given our preferences for no partnership at all, maybe we should consider staying partnered. At least we share the desire to concentrate on our careers. It could be the best way to avoid a more complicated arrangement down the road. Anyway, let’s both think about it. If we end up having to live together at some point, I expect only a normally considerate flatmate. Other than that, we can each go our own way. My mates in the billet here say I’m not a more than normally irritating person.**

**By the way, I’m not gay, so you need have no concerns on the score. Not looking for any long-term relationship in that way at the moment. I’m not much into the moon, spoon, June thing either. What is your work? Just curious. The info I got didn’t list a profession.**

**John Watson**  


He looked over the email. It was as honest as he could make it. He realized the “not gay” was a bit ambiguous, but true as far as it went. He preferred women, although he had a couple of interesting encounters with men at uni. And in the Army, of course. Stress relief, proximity. He wasn’t a romantic, but he enjoyed sex. Didn’t want to spook Holmes, though, and Sherlock sounded quite nervous beneath his attempts to sound calm and in control. John had no designs on the man sexually. He had no trouble finding sexual partners when he needed or wanted them. Or of taking care of his own needs when necessary. He thought of that beautiful face. He enjoyed beauty in his female lovers, but a more obvious masculinity in his, rarer, male lovers. Best to keep it simple for both their sakes. What was that the intelligence guys said – need to know basis. 

He hit send, stuck his head in the Colonel’s office to thank him, and went to dinner.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock becomes more reconciled to his situation. John asks for an extension. Mycroft gloats.

“It was the son. The signs of a break-in were faked after the murder. Obvious from the blood spatter on the window sill. He’s too old to be living with his mother. Financial difficulties. There were two betting slips pushed down behind a sofa cushion in the lounge. Ladbrokes, horses. High stakes and long odds. The man is a gambler and he’s getting desperate.” 

“That’s amazing,” Lestrade said. 

“Obvious.” Sherlock turned from his examination of the blood spray on the window and looked at the DI kneeling beside the body. Blood on the back of her head stained the soft, grey curls. He couldn’t see her face. How could people hurt those they supposedly loved? He had seen the pictures in the lounge. A pretty women holding a baby. A still pretty woman laughing at a young boy splashing in one of those blow-up pools out in the back of this house. A young man at Christmas with his arm around the woman, older but still attractive and smiling. 

He pulled on his gloves. “Anything else for me?” 

Lestrade looked up from the body. “What? Oh. Jesus, Sherlock. Let me wrap this one up first. Go home.” 

So Sherlock walked slowly back to Baker Street in the gathering dusk, thinking of murder, and blood, and families. He stopped at Ling’s and got Hunan shrimp for himself and lemon chicken for Mrs. Hudson. It was her favorite. 

When she opened her door, he held out the white plastic bag to her without speaking. 

“Chinese? You sweet boy! Come in, and I’ll make us tea.” 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I’ll go up. Long day.” He wanted to check his email. Had Captain Watson even gotten the email he sent? He had no idea how long communications to Army bases in Afghanistan took. His research had revealed that internet access was problematic and expensive in combat areas. Most soldiers seemed to have access only to shared computers, and those were usually in high demand. 

He let his coat drop in an untidy heap on the sofa and set the takeaway on the kitchen table where his computer sat open. He sat down, opened the waxed paper container holding his dinner and speared a shrimp with the plastic fork. He opened his email. And there it was. He suddenly wasn’t hungry any more. He put the shrimp back in the container. How bad would this be? 

After reading through John Watson’s email three times he picked up the shrimp again, put it in his mouth, and chewed thoughtfully. John Watson thought that the simple deductions he had made were amazing. That wasn’t what people usually said. Everyone except Lestrade found his deductions baffling or irritating. Usually both. So Watson was easy-going and moderately intelligent, then. 

Really, this wasn’t completely terrible. He actually seemed to have some things in common with this person. Ridiculous relatives, a career, and a desire to minimize the damage of this partnering. Perhaps they could make this work with minimal disruption to their lives. 

The thing about not being gay gave him pause. Had he given any indication in his email that he was interested in any sort of sexual relationship? He didn’t think so. He would have to reassure Watson on that score. 

The Captain’s sensible suggestion that they consider a long-term arrangement as flat-mates appealed to him. Mrs. Hudson had given him an unusually low rent for central London, but his practice was just getting off the ground. Having someone share the rent would make things easier financially. Also, having a doctor around at times might be useful for the work. He could answer questions about rigor and blood loss and so on. 

If he tried to invalidate this pairing, he would just have to register for another. John Watson was, overall, as good a match as he was likely to get. Sherlock sympathized with his desire to finish his tour and not have his work interrupted. Mycroft owed him. He would text his brother. In the meantime, he would reassure John Watson on a couple of points. He looked at the moment at the snow drifting past the window. Tea would be useful. He stood, crossed through the lounge, opened the door, and walked out onto the landing. 

“Mrs. Hudson,” he yelled. “Tea now.” 

A moment later he heard her door open. 

“Not your housekeeper,” she shouted back. 

“I brought you lemon chicken,” he bellowed. He saw no reason to go down. “I thought you liked it?” 

“I did,” came the voice from below. “I do. It was nice of you to bring it. Doesn’t mean I’m at your beck and call.”

He wasn’t sure what to say to that. Hadn’t she offered tea? Earlier? He must have misread something. He often did. Then her voice came again, softer, but quite discernable. 

“Oh, go back in. I’ll bring it up.” 

While he waited, he sat back down in front of the computer and clicked “reply.” He typed for a while, answering some of the doctor’s questions and some of their mutual concerns. After reading it over, he sat back for a moment. He noticed that a cup of tea was sitting beside him, but no Mrs. Hudson. He reached out and took a sip. Still relatively warm. Should he have been more explicit about his sexuality? But what would he have said, exactly? Asexual? Gay but sex-averse? He wasn’t quite sure himself. It probably didn’t matter. John Watson was intelligent. He would understand that the possibility of a sexual relationship didn’t even need to be discussed or negotiated. That was a relief. Sherlock pressed “send” and finished the tea. 

~~~~~ 

Things had been blessedly quiet at the base for a day or two, and John caught up on his laundry and the running poker game in the mess tent. He lost, but the stakes were low. When he returned to his tent after dinner, a bluey lay on his neatly-made bunk. He smiled. He assumed it was from his new partner, and he found himself looking forward to seeing what the man had to say. He took out the bottle of Jameson’s he kept in his locker and poured a small amount into a paper cup. He actually preferred Irish whiskey to scotch. He sat down, took a sip, and opened the sealed tri-fold. 

**FROM: sholmestec@apis.co.uk**

**TO: jwatson97@3medBFPO772.gov.uk**

**SUBJECT: RE: RE: situation**  


**DATE: 21.02.2007**  


 **Captain Watson, thank you for your reply. You ask about my profession. I am a consulting detective -- the only one in the world as far as I know. When the police are out of their depth, which is always, they sometimes come to me. I also occasionally undertake work for private clients. I finished up a case today which involved analysis of blood splatters. You would perhaps have been interested. I found myself thinking it was a shame you were not in London. The police forensics specialists I have so far encountered are reluctant to work with me.**

**I am in sympathy with your desire to avoid having your current deployment cut short. I realize it is not a solution for the long term, but I will consult my brother about a six-month delay in fulfilling our residency requirement. He holds a position in the British Government. We don’t get on, but I believe he could be persuaded to intervene in this instance since he, as well as my parents, wish this partnership to succeed. Mycroft, my brother, is fond of intervening in situations.**

**It seems that you are in an unusually dangerous area, even for Afghanistan. I had assumed you were a surgeon at the main Army hospital in Bath, but it sounds as if you are in a forward unit.**

**I appreciate your proposal that we consider ourselves simply flatmates whenever we must fulfill our residency requirements. I freely admit that the tone of your letter relieved my mind. I am in full agreement with your proposal that we let the partnering stand, as we seem to be of one mind about its nature.**

**I assume, given the location of your medical training and residency rotation, that you would not object to living in London for some part of each year. As you saw from my last email, I have a flat on Baker Street. It is an excellent location with an accommodating landlady. There is an extra bedroom upstairs that is currently empty, so that will not be a problem. I will speak to her about reserving it for your use whenever the time comes.**

**I am not concerned with your sexuality. As you know, you have a right to seek sexual relationships outside the partnering. It is of no concern to me. I consider myself married to my work. That takes most of my time, energy, and focus.**

**I am unsure as to my qualifications as a flatmate. I have never actually shared living space since I was a child, so I have little data to offer you. I sometimes don’t talk for days on end, conduct experiments in the flat related to my work, and play the violin. Would any of that be of concern to you?**

**Sherlock Holmes**  


John took the last sip of whisky. Well, he couldn't say that he hadn't drawn an interesting partner. Married to his work? That didn’t actually clear up the question about his sexuality, but it did seem to make it clear that he didn’t think it was worth discussing. That implied John was free to forget about it and have whatever relationships he wished, so it was ideal from his point of view. Maybe the Lucky Dip had been lucky after all. At some point, it sounded like they would actually end up living together. If they could figure out a way for John to remain on active duty during during part of the year, he liked the idea of living in London for the other part. He found the idea of being Sherlock’s in-house, casual consultant on forensics intriguing. He read over the bluey again. Experiments? What kind of experiments exactly? 

~~~~~ 

_Have been partnered. I assume you know already. SH_

**I hardly have time to keep up with your every move, brother dear. But congratulations. Are you happy with the pairing? MH**

_Not happy. As you well know I have no wish for a partner. Considering the fact you refused to intervene and spare me this, he is acceptable. There is a problem however. SH_

Mycroft smiled down at his phone. He had chosen well then. Of course he knew what the problem was. He had considered it and decided to play along and obtain the temporary respite for John Watson to finish his deployment. It was the least he could do for the poor man. 

**So you requested a man. I assumed that would be the case. What is the difficulty? I will of course assist you in any way possible. MH**

Sherlock looked down at his phone and contemplated throwing it across the room. Mycroft was pretending that he hadn't already known it was a man, but Sherlock knew his brother. He would have had his spider feelers out to obtain information on the partner he ended up with. He probably knew that Sherlock had taken a Lucky Dip before he had walked out of Speedy’s. He hoped that had panicked the bloody prick. It would have served Mycroft right if he had been paired with a fifty-year old woman with Mafia connections in Sicily. But Sherlock was sure Mycroft had arranged to be informed about the occasion and identity of the partner once the match had been made. He drew back his arm to throw the phone, but thought better of it. Mycroft had bought him this phone and he couldn’t afford another at the moment. He gritted his teeth and replied. 

_Don’t bother to pretend you don’t already know who and haven’t deduced the problem. Fix it. SH_

Mycroft smiled. It was quite touching that Sherlock didn't suspect the extent of his interference. His brother was suspicious, but not suspicious enough. He didn't even suspect that his partner wasn't random good luck. Amazing good luck. But perhaps that wasn't so surprising. Sherlock had always seemed to think the universe owed him. Mycroft would never deign to use emoticons, but he was momentarily tempted to just text a smiley. He refrained. 

**I will take care of it. Give the good doctor my regards. I must say you took a foolish risk with that Lucky Dip. Cutting off your nose to spite my face? May I say that it appears you were luckier than you deserve? That being said, my congratulations to you both. I will give Mummy and Daddy the happy news since I can safely assume you have not informed them. MH**

Sherlock hesitated, hand tight around the phone. He loathed it when Mycroft was right about anything, but he admitted to himself that it appeared he had been lucky in this partnering. 

Mycroft put his phone aside and got back to reviewing the report on the looming scandal in the cabinet. Really, how did supposedly intelligent people think they could get away with taking bribes from the Americans in this day and age? His text alert buzzed. He reached over for his phone and looked at the message. 

_thanks SH_

His eyebrows rose. Even he hadn’t expected the partnering to have good effects this soon. Something was possessing Sherlock to express… gratitude. Perhaps he had chosen better than he knew. 

**My pleasure. MH**


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock ease into their relationship. Sherlock's gratitude to Mycroft is present but severely limited. Mrs. Hudson is a smart lady. If you notice a passing reference to ACD's "The Man with the Twisted Lip" you are correct.

**FROM: jwatson97@3medBFPO772.gov.uk**

**TO: sholmestec@apis.co.uk**

**SUBJECT: wow**  


**DATE: 23.02.2007**  


**Wow, that was fast. Amazing. The DGMS called my Colonel. That’s the Deputy General of Medical Services to you civilians. What exactly does your brother do for the government anyway? I assume all this is his doing. Please tell him I’m grateful. My C.O. is letting me send this email from his office. He said to tell you and your brother that he appreciates whatever intervention it took to allow me to complete my tour. I can’t give details by email of course, but let’s just say my services are needed. I don’t mean to sound full of myself, but you may have saved some lives here. I’m a good surgeon, and every one of us is needed. So, again, thanks.**

**Colonel Billingsly also told me that the DG approved a plan to let me spend six months of ‘our’ year back in London and six months in whatever theatre of operations they need me at the time – sort of a pinch-hitting combat surgeon to cover leaves and special operations and such. The six months in London they’ll use me as an instructor for Army medics doing training at U London or their residency at Barts. That’s brilliant. In fact, I’m sort of pinching myself. Except for the part about being partnered against my will by my alcoholic sister, this is all about the best I could wish for.**

**C.O. needs his office back, so I have to go. Next time you have a chance, tell me about whatever you’re working on now. I’m really interested. Besides, word is out about you. Jerry, the C.O.'s aide, could never keep his mouth shut. Gossipy runt from Glasgow, but he's a good kid. Anyway, my mates are asking for details about my partner, so I need stories to tell them. Since it looks like everything is going to work out, can we start calling each other by our first names?**

**John**

~~~~~ 

_Quick work. SH_

**I live to serve. MH**

_John says to tell you he is grateful. SH_

**I may not have done him any favors. Things are hotting up over there. MH**

_Hands off. He seems to think he’s needed. I think he also likes danger. SH_

**A match made in heaven then. MH**

_Sod. Right. Off._

_SH_  


~~~~~  


**FROM: sholmestec@apis.co.uk**

**TO: jwatson97@3medBFPO772.gov.uk**

**SUBJECT: current cases**  


**DATE: 26.02.2007**  


**Mycroft is an arrogant, interfering, bloody-minded git. He is also brilliant and efficient, not to say ruthless, in achieving his chosen ends. Being the object of his ‘concern’ is a mixed blessing, but I am happy that you are pleased with the arrangement. I assume he didn’t ask you before he managed your affairs. He didn’t ask me, either. But it sounds like a satisfactory enough arrangement. You asked about my brother's position in the government. He calls himself a "minor official." I encourage you to ask him to elaborate on that the next time you're in London.**

**You ask about cases. I only have one at the moment. Unfortunately not a murder, but it has features of interest. I was brought in to consult by Detective Inspector Lestrade of the London Metropolitan Police. Lestrade is far less stupid than most of his ilk. At least he has the sense to know when he is floundering. I have been working with him off and on for three years.**

**The case involves a missing schoolteacher from Hounslow. After meeting the man’s partner, I am not surprised that he disappeared. However, there are some features that suggest that there is more to his disappearance than the simple matter of a man weary of a disagreeable partnering who has chosen to make a run for America. The interesting thing is that the woman went to central London at the weekend to seek solace from a friend after St. Clair had been absent from their home for several days. She swears that when she was walking to the friend's flat off Marylebone, she saw him in the second-floor window of a pub called the Black Hand. I am, unfortunately, familiar with the business conducted on the second floor of the Black Hand. I will continue to investigate, but I fear that he did not flee to New York. Or anywhere else.**

**Speaking as a physician, do you think it is likely that a man could work as a teacher and live with a partner without anyone knowing that he had a serious drug addiction? The woman seemed amazingly stupid, so take that into account. Of course he may have been selling drugs as a side-line instead of taking them, in which case the question is moot.**

**Our landlady, Mrs. Hudson, has agreed to hold the room upstairs for you. She seems quite pleased that you will be joining us next year for a time. Mycroft offered to pay her for the room until you can take up residency. It is hateful to be beholden to him, but he pointed out that it was unfair to ask you to chip in now from what is undoubtedly an insufficient army stipend. I had to agree. I hope that is agreeable to you. Mrs. Hudson was quite curious about you, so I showed her your picture. She said something inane about all the girls loving a solder. I have no idea what she meant.**

**Sherlock**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When both partners are in dangerous lines of work...

**FROM: jwatson97@3medBFPO772.gov.uk**

**TO: sholmestec@apis.co.uk**

**SUBJECT: thanks and don’t be an idiot**  


**DATE: 03.03.2007**  


**Tell Mrs. Hudson I owe her a luxurious tea at Brown’s Hotel and that I’m looking forward to meeting her. I should refuse Mycroft’s generosity, but I frankly can’t afford to. I’m sending money to Harry to help keep her in the rehab place she’s checked into. Bloody expensive. I love the Army, but I find having the idea of a place waiting for me in London reassuring. Send me some pictures of the flat, yeah? Sometimes I get tired of staring at sand and blood and scared kids and Bill Murray’s ugly mug. Bill’s standing behind me waiting for the terminal. He says hello and to warn you that I snore but that, in my favor, I make an excellent cup of tea. I told him the snoring was irrelevant, but the tea recommendation was appreciated. Git.**

**What’s happening with the Case of The Black Hand? Your business, of course, but I hope you’re not visiting the second floor anymore except in the course of your professional investigations. I don’t think it’s likely the teacher could hide any drug problem serious enough to get him disappeared from his nearest and dearest. Too many physical signs. Like the red-rimmed eyes and the hollow cheeks in your I.D. picture, for instance. I hope you’re taking reasonable precautions on your cases. I’d hate to lose you as a friend and a partner before I’ve even met you. I hope I’m not being presumptuous to think that we’re becoming friends? I hope so, anyway. I was afraid my sister had gotten me paired up with a middle-aged lesbian in Newcastle – no joke – so I don’t feel like pressing my luck by having to try again. Take care of yourself.**

**John**

~~~~~  


**FROM: sholmestec@apis.co.uk**

**TO: jwatson97@3medBFPO772.gov.uk**

**SUBJECT: symptoms**  


**DATE: 08.03.2007**  


**What would cause numbness, tingling of the extremities, swelling, followed several hours later by intense pain, followed by death from respiratory arrest?**

**Mrs. Hudson says the tea sounds lovely and that she looks forward to your civilizing influence at 221B. I have no idea what she means. I am off to Bournemouth to investigate a murder for a private client in a couple of hours, so she agreed to take pictures of the flat as you requested and send JPEGs to you. I have finally persuaded her to enter the 21st century world of electronic communication. She means well, but she natters, so take anything she may say with more than a grain of salt. The client is the head of the local yacht club. There was a murder in one of their boathouses, and he doesn’t trust the local police. I loathe seaside towns, but I suppose it’s better than boredom. Anyway, the fee is excellent. Let me know if you require assistance with your sister’s bills. I am in funds at the moment.**

**I understand your trepidation about my involvement with the Black Hand. For some reason, your concern does not affect me negatively as does Mycroft’s. Perhaps it is because you consider me a friend. I’ve never had one before, so I can’t say for certain since I currently have too little data. I am not offended that you are suspicious, given your sister’s history. I know that promises from addicts ring hollow, but I am clean and will remain clean. I will leave you to draw your own conclusions as a doctor when we meet. As to my cases, your work is far more dangerous than mine. Take care of yourself.**

**Sherlock**

~~~~~  


**FROM: jwatson97@3medBFPO772.gov.uk**

**TO: sholmestec@apis.co.uk**

**SUBJECT: RE: symptoms**  


**DATE: 13.03.2007**  


**Sorry I haven’t been able to get to a computer until now. Can’t go into specifics by email, but we’ve been run off our legs. The symptoms you describe could be severe anaphylaxis or some poisons. The gap of several hours between the first symptoms and the onset of the pain (as well as the severity) almost make me think venom. Is that possible?**

**Is that a skull on the mantelpiece? The flat looks very nice, apart from the clutter. Guess you’ve been busy with cases. Thank Mrs. Hudson for sending the pictures and for her email. She really loves you, you know. Don’t know if she’s actually told you that directly or not, but I thought you should know. So now you have at least two friends.**

**Oh bloody hell. Not even ten minutes peace. Jer just came to get me. Counter-insurgency operation gone very wrong. The med choppers are leaving in five. Have to leave Harry and money and the yacht club murder and the fact that yes, we’re friends as well as partners, until I get back.**

**John**

~~~~~

It had, indeed, been venom. He wouldn’t have thought of it, because although Kyle Johnson worked in a pet shop it was one of the boring ones with kittens, fluffy puppies, tropical fish, and a few disgruntled birds. Nothing interesting like snakes or lizards or spiders. The victim had been quite the Lothario, working his way through the other shop assistants, both women and men. As soon as Sherlock received John's email, he made inquiries about staff travel and discovered that one of Kyle's co-workers recently returned from a trip to Fiji. He looked carefully again at all the cages and aquatic habitats. There, in one, almost hidden by a waving fern-like plant, lay a small mollusk, its triangular tan spots blending in with the sand at the bottom of the aquarium. It was unassuming, rare, and quite out of place in Paws n Claws. The venom of _Conus marmoreus_ is deadly to humans, even in minute quantities. He wondered how she had smuggled it into the country and how she had ensured it was Kyle who received the sting. She refused to say and told him to go to hell into the bargain as they took her away. 

Back at Baker Street, Sherlock opened his computer, eager to tell john the details of the case. He would be pleased that he had contributed to the solution. He hesitated. Should he open with the venomous mollusk or with the skull and the clutter? He looked around. He could clean up a bit during the next few months. At least the bedroom upstairs was clean and Spartan enough for an Army officer. He wondered if John would object to the microscope and Bunsen burner on the kitchen table? 

He would start with the skull. That was an interesting story. He would end with the mollusk. Those were his strong suits. He was on less solid ground with the friendship, the money, and the clutter. He started to hit “reply” when he heard footsteps on the stairs. Not Mrs. Hudson. Heavier. Oh, bugger Mycroft. What now? 

Mycroft appeared in the open doorway. “To what do I owe this interruption?” Sherlock asked, not bothering to get up from the kitchen table. 

“It’s John. I wanted to tell you myself. I owe him that. He’s been wounded.” 

Sherlock felt the blood drain from his face. He put his hands flat on the table on either side of the computer to keep them from shaking. If Mycroft was here, it was bad. 

“It’s bad, I’m afraid.” Mycroft almost always knew what he was thinking. “I thought you should know. 

“You’ve been keeping tabs on him,” Sherlock said. 

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I know you don’t want interference, but I knew where he was, and I knew how badly things could go there. I wanted to be ready to do anything I could, but I knew how you’d resent it.” 

Strange that what he felt wasn’t resentment but relief. He shook his head, trying to tell Mycroft that, but his voice didn’t seem to be working. He had never had a partner before, had never had a friend. In spite of what John had said, Mrs. Hudson was more like his mother than a friend. Was this how it felt? No wonder Mycroft was wary of involvement. He stood up, chair scraping back. He cleared his throat. 

“Mycroft… no. No, I’m grateful. That you knew what was happening. That you… How bad is it?” 

Mycroft looked at him strangely. “You care about him, don’t you? I feared this might happen. Well, be that as it may. He is alive, Sherlock, at least he was a half-hour ago. He was shot in the shoulder during an attack on a Taliban stronghold near Lashkar Gar. They think it was a sniper targeting the medical personnel trying to help the wounded. He lost a lot of blood, but they got him to the nearest hospital at Camp Bastion. It’s serious. He’s in surgery now.” 

“I want him here,” said Sherlock. “Can you…?” 

“Already done. If it’s possible for him to travel, he’ll be sent to Queen Alexandra.” 

“I want him here.” 

“That is here.” Mycroft sighed. Sherlock suddenly noticed how exhausted he looked. 

“Tea?” 

“That would be welcome,” Mycroft said, and finally sat down at the kitchen table. While Sherlock made tea, Mycroft gave him the details. Queen Alexandra Military Hospital was in London. It was one of the best hospitals in Britain. If John made it through the surgery, they would transfer him as soon as they could. They had no idea when surgery would be over. 

Mycroft reached across the table, put three teaspoons of sugar in Sherlock’s cup, added milk, and pushed it into his hand. “Drink it.” 

Sherlock nodded and did as he was told. 

“He’s a good man, John Watson. He seems to be a determined one.” 

Sherlock nodded. He was grateful that Mycroft hadn’t told him again that caring was not an advantage. Or tried to reassure him when they both knew that would be whistling in the dark. 

Why had this shaken him? He and John really barely knew each other. He knew that was true, rationally. It felt different. Feelings, he’d never been good with those. John had seemed to accept Sherlock from almost the beginning. Mycroft was correct. John seemed…good. Brave, kind. He had a sense of humor. Strangely, he now seemed glad that Sherlock was his partner even though he hadn't wanted a partner in the first place. He considered Sherlock a friend. Why did it terrify him to think of losing something he had barely touched and didn’t quite understand? 

“Do you want me to go now?” Mycroft sounded diffident. 

Sherlock didn’t. That was surprising in itself. “Can you stay until we know… something?” 

“Of course,” Mycroft said. “They know to keep me updated by phone. Could you eat something? It might help.” 

Sherlock shook his head and pressed his hands flat on the table again. 

“I need to eat,” Mycroft said. Sherlock realized from his tone that Mycroft was steeling himself for the usual barbs about his weight. 

“Chinese,” said Sherlock. “I’ll… try. I’ll call.” He stood and went to the drawer where he kept the take-out menus. He went to the lounge to retrieve his phone and sat down heavily in the grey leather chair. He ordered wonton soup for himself and shrimp with Chinese vegetables for Mycroft. How long would they have to wait? What if he never got to tell John about the skull? What if John never slept in the bedroom upstairs? Even though he could hear Mycroft talking softly into his phone in the kitchen, the flat had never felt emptier.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John meets the brothers Holmes.

**Find a case for my brother, I beg of you. Otherwise I may be forced to sedate him. Or myself. MH**

_I don’t have a bloody case. He’s called me three times already. How is John? Mrs. Hudson called me. He’s driving her around the twist with the violin in the middle of the night. Can’t you do something?_

**John survived surgery. His condition is guarded. He cannot be moved at this time. Sherlock somehow found the surgeon’s email address. Needless to say he has blocked us both now. Fortunately I have access to his superior. Make up a case. MH**

_You know I can’t do that._

**He needs a distraction. I am having him watched, but he is tearing himself apart. He hasn’t slept in two days. He tried to call me out of a briefing with Her Majesty when he failed to reach Dr. Watson’s commanding officer by satellite phone. MH**

_There are some suspicious suicides. Probably nothing._

**Please call him. MH**

~~~~~  


Lestrade got the call about the body at Lauriston Gardens five minutes after the texts from Sherlock’s brother, so he went to Baker Street himself. When Mrs. Hudson opened the door, he heard discordant scrapes and screeches floating down from the flat above. 

“See if you can make him stop that racket,” she pleaded. “I don’t know how much longer I can stand this, I really don’t. I know he’s worried, but that goes on and on, and he’s not eating enough to keep a bird alive.” 

Lestrade didn’t stop to reassure her. He bounded up the steps, and opened the door to the lounge. Sherlock was supine on the sofa, eyes closed, violin and bow resting on his chest. He wore pajama bottoms and a grey t-shirt. His hair was in disarray. Was that stubble on his face? Lestrade hadn’t seen him like this since the drug days. 

“There’s been a fourth. And there’s something different this time. What?” 

Lestrade was relieved. At least Sherlock had been keeping up with the news. 

“This one left a note of sorts. Will you come?” 

“Who’s on forensics?” 

“Anderson,” Lestrade said, reluctantly. Anderson and Sherlock hated each other, and Lestrade hated playing go-between. He needed Sherlock on this one, however, and Sherlock needed a case. 

“John. I need John. He's a doctor,” Sherlock muttered. 

Lestrade didn’t know quite what to say. “I’m sorry about John, Sherlock. Mrs. H told me what happened. Have you heard anything?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “They won’t tell me anything. They’re all idiots.” 

“I need you on this. Will you come? You know Mycroft will call you if anything changes.” 

Sherlock sighed, sat up, and finally opened his eyes. Lestrade cocked his head. Well, this was…different. Serial killers were Sherlock’s favorite thing. He should be jumping for joy, as much as Sherlock ever showed joy. He just looked subdued. Sherlock Holmes actually cared about another human being? Well, well. 

Sherlock looked at him for a long moment. “Give me the address. I’ll…,” he gestured vaguely to his face and hair. “I’ll get a cab. I won’t be long.” 

“Thanks,” Lestrade said, and ran back down the stairs to the police cruiser. 

~~~~~  


Pink. Beeps. Suitcase? The beeps were regular and high pitched. Irritating. Below the beeps was something low, soothing, continuous. Dark and soft, like floating in a pool of water and looking up at the stars at the same time. John could rest there forever, except for the beeps. It wasn’t water. He was resting on a voice. It had said something about rings and pink and suitcases and revenge, which didn’t sound soothing, but the sound itself was like a warm bath after a long day. He remembered coming in from playing in the snow with Harry when he had been little. The house had been warm, and there had been hot chocolate. Before everything went to hell. The voice was like that. He prepared to sink back down into it, but the beeping increased in frequency. Then there was light. No, no, no. He wanted to float in the darkness. Something told him there was pain on the other side of that darkness, and he’d just as soon not… 

Pain and light and fear. He felt around for the voice, for its dark comfort, but the only sound was beeping. He tried to sit up, but his muscles didn’t seem to be working. He tried to breathe deeply, but the pain burned through his chest with each intake of air. He groaned. 

Then he felt a hand on his arm. A voice. Not _the_ voice, but a voice. “Don’t try to move, Dr. Watson. I will call the nurses. You are in hospital in London. Your surgeries were successful.” 

“Dr. Watson is awake. We need some assistance,” the voice said. It was a man’s voice, lighter and more highly pitched than the other voice, precise and commanding. He somehow had no doubt that assistance would be forthcoming, and he relaxed. He struggled to open his eyes, blinking against the fluorescent glare. 

“Who… who…” He was alarmed at the weak, thready sound coming out of his mouth. Dry. 

“Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother. Here, some water may help.” 

A face loomed over him. An elegantly manicured hand held out a paper cup. Another hand, surprisingly gentle, went behind his back and helped him sit up a bit. He nodded and drank gratefully. 

Just that action exhausted him, and his head fell back on the pillows. Before he could ask any more questions, several people entered the room and began a routine with which John was intimately familiar, but from the other side of the bed. Probing, questions, monitors. After a time, only a doctor and Mycroft Holmes remained. 

“Would you like an update on your condition now, Dr. Watson, or would you prefer to rest?” 

Good doctor, thought John. Patel, was it? 

“I’m ready now,” he said. 

“May I stay? Sherlock would like any available information that you will allow him to have.” 

John hesitated, torn between a desire for privacy and a desire for support. Where was Harry? How bad was it? Did he want the Holmes brothers involved? What would he have wanted if Sherlock, the man he was partnered with but just barely getting to know, was the one in the hospital bed? 

“You can stay,” he said to Mycroft. So Dr. Patel gave him the news. Bullet wound to the left shoulder, nicked the subclavian artery. Extensive blood loss, damage to the acromial angle and infraspinous fossa, damage to the suprascapular artery and nerve and the circumflex scapular artery. Possible brachial plexus damage. Two surgeries, one at the Army Hospital in Afghanistan, the other when they had gotten him to Queen Alexandra yesterday. The second surgery had been to try to restore more circulation to the damaged vein and arteries. This had included grafts from his left leg. 

“I assume you know that I’m a surgeon,” John said. “How bad is the nerve damage?” Will I ever be able to perform surgery again? That was the question he didn’t ask, but that all three of the men in the room knew was the real question. 

“It is too soon to know the exact extent, but it could be extensive.” Bad then. John gritted his teeth and nodded. 

“For now, just rest and heal. We’ll start some tests next week on the nerves after some of the swelling has gone down. Any other questions, doctor? Anything else you need?” 

John shook his head. Patel put the chart back into position at the foot of his bed, and left. 

John cleared his throat and looked at the man hovering in the corner. 

“You can sit down if you like,” John said. “Private room in a military hospital. I assume that’s your doing. I’m grateful, but you don’t have to stay. I don’t need a nurse-maid. They’ll take good care of me, and I’m sure you've got better things to do.” John’s voice gave out on the last phrase. Mycroft stood and helped him drink. John nodded his thanks. 

“You sound remarkably like my brother,” Mycroft said. “Just as reluctant to accept help. However, it was Sherlock who insisted that someone stay with you. I agreed with his assessment. My brother stayed with you last night, but he’s involved in a case, so he called on the peculiar little…family, for lack of a better term…that he has gathered around him to stay with you whilst he is out detecting. You’ll meet us all, eventually, I expect. Mrs. Hudson was here yesterday. She left some quite excellent scones.” Mycroft sat back down, straightening the knife-edged pleats in his trousers. 

So Sherlock had a case. Sherlock had been here with him. John felt a tiny smile tug at the corners of his mouth. “Does it have something to do with pink suitcases or have I been hallucinating?” 

“Ah, you could hear him, then. He finds talking aloud helpful to his process. He was droning on about serial suicides, murder, rings, and pink suitcases when I came this morning. He said to tell you if you woke up that your bedroom is ready, he is chasing down leads, and that he will be back this evening. I really must get back to work, but I am happy that you’re doing better, doctor. Mrs. Hudson will be here shortly, no doubt with more baked goods. Is there anything I can do for you before I leave?” 

John blinked. It seemed everything was taken care of for the moment. Alarmingly so. He was used to doing his own managing. 

“Does Harry…does my sister know I’m here?” 

“Ah,” said Mycroft. “She was notified, and she unwisely left her rehabilitation facility to come to London. You should know that she did come to see you and is very concerned for your welfare. She was here last evening.” 

Well, John supposed that the brother of his partner would be involved with his family. No use mincing words. 

“Drunk?” 

“Alas, yes. Dr. Watson, you and I have that in common. Addiction in the family, I mean. As I’m sure Sherlock told you, his poison of choice is drugs. I hope you won’t take it amiss that, in light of your current circumstance, I took it upon myself to persuade your sister to return to rehab. I assured her I would keep her apprised of your situation, and I have done so. She asked that you call her when you could.” Suddenly Mycroft looked down and fiddled with the umbrella he had planted on the linoleum floor. 

“You’ve taken a lot of trouble for me, for someone you don’t even know.” 

Mycroft was still looking down at his umbrella. He shrugged. “I care for my brother, doctor, and you are his partner. Even long-distance, I believe you have been good for him. I want to see the partnership thrive.” He looked up then. “Let my brother tell you about the drugs himself. I know it’s hard to trust an addict, but I believe he is clean at the moment and has resolved to remain clean. I’d be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to keep me informed of his situation.” 

Suddenly, John thought, the conversation had gone off the rails. “You’re already paying my rent. I’m grateful, by the way, but I can’t continue to accept it. And I won’t spy on Sherlock for you. Why would you even ask me that?” 

“Because I worry about Sherlock. Constantly. I’m not asking you to be indiscreet. Nothing you’d feel uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he’s up to.” 

“Up to? You mean drugs? You just said he was clean.” 

“We have a history, doctor, and he hates for me to interfere.” 

“So don’t interfere. That seems simple enough.” The beeps of John’s monitor increased in frequency. 

“You seem very loyal, very quickly.” Mycroft’s face was unreadable. 

“He’s my partner. Of course I’m loyal. Are we done? You know, I think we are.” 

“Hardly. Since we’re family now, I’m sure we’ll see each other soon.” Mycroft reached into the inner pocket of his impeccably-tailored suit coat and pulled out a card. He took out a darkly-gleaming fountain pen with a gold nib, crossed to the tray table beside John’s bed, and wrote something on the card. He turned it face down and left it there. “That is my private number. As hard as it may be for you to believe, I admire your loyalty, but you may find that my brother is a complicated man. You may need my help as much as I need yours. If you ever need me, for anything, I am at your service.” 

John looked at the open door for several moments after Sherlock’s brother left. He was so interested in trying to figure out what rabbit hole he had fallen into with the Holmes brothers that he forgot for a little while to think about his injuries. 

~~~~~

The next time he woke up, he heard the low, velvet voice. Quite close. 

“I see Mycroft left you his super-secret number. He must have liked you. Did he offer you money to spy on me?” 

John turned his head. There, sitting in the visitor chair pulled up to the side of John’s bed, eating a biscuit, was Sherlock Holmes. John blinked. The man in person was even more alarmingly beautiful than in his photo. Dark hair curled on his forehead. Skin as white as paper and eyes…. Blue, green, grey? 

“Yeah, he did. Turned it down.” John fumbled for the controls and raised the head of the bed. “Oi! You’re getting crumbs in the bed.” 

“Oh, sorry.” Sherlock wiped ineffectually at the crumbs. “Next time think it through. Mycroft is rich as Croesus, and we may be short of funds. Mrs. Hudson left them. The biscuits. Shortbread. Would you like one?” 

“Ta.” Sherlock put the tin between them on the bed. John reached for a biscuit and bit into it. Heaven. 

Sherlock reached into the bedside drawer and pulled out a phone. “Here, I want you to send a text.” 

No “sorry you were shot.” No “how do you feel?” No “will you ever perform surgery again?” No “hello, nice to actually meet you.” Actually, John thought, that was an enormous relief, since he didn’t feel like talking about his feelings at the moment. Sherlock waved the phone at him. 

“OK,” John said, sitting up straighter and plucking the mobile out of the long-fingered hand hovering over his chest. 

“Here’s the number,” Sherlock dropped a piece of paper onto his lap, got up from the chair. He started pacing and demolishing another piece of shortbread. Crumbs on the floor, of course. Housekeeping was going to be pissed. 

“Does this have something to do with the pink case?” 

“Oh, you heard that? I wondered if you could. I thought perhaps, if you could hear, you would be bored and grateful for a distraction. Yes, the victim had a pink suitcase. Go ahead, enter the number. Are you doing it?” 

“Yes.” 

“Have you done it?” 

“Hang on a bloody minute. Possible nerve damage here…,” John muttered. 

He got zero expressions of sympathy from the man pacing around his hospital room. John smiled. “OK, what now?” 

“These words exactly: ‘What happened at Lauriston Gardens? I must have blacked out.’” 

“Twenty-two…” 

“Sod it… hang on a minute…. OK.” 

“Twenty-two Northumberland Street. Please come.” 

John texted as fast as he could. His left shoulder radiated pain. He didn’t care. His hand seemed to be working. That was good. “Done.” 

“Send it.” 

John pressed send. “So who did I just text?” 

“The murderer, I think. Her phone wasn’t in the case. He had to get rid of her case.” 

John furrowed his brow. “Because it was pink?” 

“Of course. Most serial killers are men, and he couldn’t be seen with a pink case. Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.” 

“That’s brilliant.” 

Sherlock stopped his pacing and gave John a slight smile. He ducked his head. It was like no-one had ever told him he was brilliant. 

“So you had me text a serial killer from your phone.” 

“No, that’s _your_ phone. Your new phone. Mycroft left it for you.” 

“So I just texted a killer from _my_ phone. Wonderful.” Just then the phone began to ring. 

Sherlock came back to sit in the bedside chair. John held the phone out. Withheld number. The phone continued to ring. Sherlock ignored it. 

“Don’t you see? A few hours after his last victim, he receives a text that can only be from her.” The phone stopped ringing. “We’ve panicked him. Now he’ll make a mistake.” 

“ _We’ve_ panicked him?” 

“Yes, we, John. You’ve been a great help, even while unconscious. Talking to you helped. I usually talk to the skull, but Mrs. Hudson confiscated it when I hid cigarettes there. She’s trying to persuade me to stop smoking.” 

“So that _was_ a skull on the mantel. I’m basically filling in for your skull?” 

Sherlock stood, picked up a charcoal grey coat that he had draped across the foot of John’s bed, swirled it on, and popped up the collar. The thought crossed John’s mind that this action had, unfairly, emphasized his partner’s cheekbones even more and brought out the blue in his remarkable eyes. 

“Relax, you’re doing fine,” Sherlock said. Then he hesitated, his eyes narrowed, and a small, horizontal furrow appeared at the top of his nose. “Um… I didn’t mean that you actually _were_ fine. Of course you're not… I should have asked how you were feeling, shouldn’t I? I should have said something…” 

John interrupted. “Nope. You’re doing fine, too. I don’t really want to talk about it at the moment. I liked having something to think about. Hi, by the way. Nice to finally meet you.” 

The furrow smoothed out. “Right, then. Don’t answer your phone unless it’s from your sister. Mycroft programmed her number in. If all goes well, I’ll bring you back a late dinner from Angelo’s. I looked at the tray they brought the man across the hall. Absolutely disgusting. If things don’t go well, Mycroft or Molly will be here later.” 

“Wait,” John said. “What things? Who’s Angelo? Who the hell is Molly?” John raised his voice on the last question, because Sherlock was out the door and into the hall. 

Suddenly Sherlock’s head came around the door. “Later. By the way, welcome back to London.” Then he was gone. John closed he eyes. He was exhausted. The man was a bloody whirlwind, his shoulder felt as though someone was stabbing him, the brother was a piece of work, he didn't know if he would ever work as a surgeon again, he felt weirdly exhilarated and exhausted at the same time. Maybe it was the morphine. Maybe he needed more of it. He pressed the call button.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, as always, to Arienne de Vere and her invaluable transcripts of the BBC Sherlock episodes. I'm using some of the season 1 framework as touchstones now, and she makes it so much easier for us all.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to be a good partner. Some things he gets right. Other things, not so much.

“You’re awake. Good. Angelo insisted on the candle. He said it would be more romantic. I have no idea what he meant, since I explained to him that you were my partner but it wasn’t a sexual relationship. I agreed to humour him.” 

Just for a moment, John didn’t open his eyes. He savored the deep voice and the faint, lingering smell of food. Not-hospital-food. The smell was rich and deep, like the voice, with a lovely overtone of alcohol of some sort. John fumbled for the controls and raised the head of the bed. He blinked. A little votive candle in a clear glass container glowed warmly into the gloom. Sherlock had turned off the sodding flourescents, then. 

“I sent the nurse to heat up the veal marsala. Angelo recommended it, and he’s never wrong. Sorry there’s no wine. Angelo said it was illegal to send wine off premises, and he’s still on parole from the burglary charge so he’s a bit sensitive about such things.” Sherlock was sat by his bedside, still in his coat, doing something on his phone. 

“Who is Angelo? You hared off before you could tell me. I assume from the fact that you’re here things went well.” 

Just then a young male nurse came in looking slightly furtive, holding a plate. The former food-smells were just an echo of these. He put the plate on John’s tray table beside the candle, adjusted it over his lap, and said, “You’re lucky that made it back from the microwave in the break room. I had offers.” As he turned, Sherlock stood and pressed something into his hand. 

“Did you just bribe an army nurse?” 

“Eat before it gets cold. Angelo wouldn’t be happy if he knew it was reheated once already.” Sherlock sat down again in the chair pulled up to John’s bedside. “Angelo is, or rather was, a talented house-breaker. I got him off a murder charge. I was able to prove that at the time of an interesting triple murder in Soho, he was in the midst of a jewelry heist in Kensington. He is now the owner of an excellent Italian restaurant, a restaurant across from 22 Northumberland. Eat, John.” 

John took a bite. “Oh, sweet Jesus.” It tasted even better than it smelled. 

“Good?” 

John just nodded and took another bite. And another. Then he paused. “And Molly? That was the other name you mentioned. Who’s she?” He took another larger bite. The veal was meltingly tender, the pasta was still al dente even after all it had been through. 

“Someone I know at St. Bart’s. You’ll like her, I think. She’s a pathologist. She does me favors from time to time.” 

“It _is_ more romantic with the candle," John said, "which is, I’m almost positive, against the rules here.” 

Sherlock shrugged. The shrug was eloquent. It stated quite plainly that rules were immaterial to Sherlock. 

“John, just to be clear...," Sherlock paused and cleared his throat. "I am not trying to seduce you. It just wasn’t worth arguing with Angelo. He was quite insistent. You are free to pursue whatever romantic or sexual relationships you wish, as you know. I thought I made that clear?” Sherlock was fiddling with his phone again, not looking at John. 

“I was just teasing, Sherlock.” The dark head still bent over the phone. His lips were tight. Ok, then, John thought. Not a subject his partner takes lightly. Must be some history there, but at least they should get some things clear, now that they were face to face. John liked clarity. No time like the present. He didn’t have anywhere else to go at the moment. 

“You want any of this veal?” He realized he was stalling “Did you eat earlier?” 

Sherlock looked up then. “No and no.” 

“Well, ta for bringing it. It’s brilliant. That was nice of you.” Sherlock shrugged. 

“Look, Sherlock. It’s best to clear the air about this now. I know you’re not interested. You said in one of your emails that you were married to your work. That’s perfectly fine. Does that mean you’re not interested in sex at all? I mean, I’m clear that you’re not interested in me in that way. But if you want to have sex outside the partnership or other relationships, it would be fine, as long as we’re clear about…” John let his voice trail off. He noticed a delicate flush staining the white skin of the man sitting by his bedside. He also noted that the brilliant eyes were looking at some point at the foot of the bed, not at him. Interesting. One thing about his new partner, he was nothing if not interesting. 

“It’s fine if you don’t even want to talk about it. It’s all fine,” John said. “You’re sure you don’t want anything to eat? So what happened with the killer, then? Was he there? Did you catch him?” 

Sherlock frowned. “No. I thought I was close, but I must have miscalculated. I was sure he’d be in that cab, but it turned out to be a tourist newly-arrived from California. I still think he has her phone…” 

Just then, there were footsteps and raised voices in the hallway. “Police business,” John heard. Then the room was suddenly quite crowded. Sherlock bounded out of the chair. 

“What are you doing here, Lestrade?” 

“I knew you’d find her suitcase,” the grey-haired man who seemed to be in charge said. “I’m not stupid.” 

“You broke into my flat? You can’t do that.” Sherlock started pacing around the room. 

The man ignored him and came over to the bed. He stuck out his hand to John. “I’m Greg Lestrade. Detective Inspector Lestrade. Sorry about all this. And congratulations about the partnership….,” he hesitated, tracking Sherlock’s agitated pacing. “I guess.” 

John took his hand and gave it firm shake. “Thanks.” Lestrade turned to look at Sherlock. 

“I didn’t break into your flat. It was a drugs bust.” 

The smile slipped from John’s face, and he sat up straighter in the bed. “He’s clean,” he said. “I’m sure you didn’t find anything in his flat that you could call recreational.” 

“There wasn’t,” Lestrade said. John nodded decisively. Sherlock had stopped pacing and was looking at John. There was the barest ghost of smile on his face. John smiled back. “But we did find the case,” the DI continued. “Sherlock, you can’t withhold evidence.” 

“What are _they_ doing here?” Sherlock jerked his head toward the man and woman standing by the door. 

“We were all looking for evidence in your flat. Found it, too. They’re not strictly speaking on the drugs squad, but they were very keen.” 

“Oh for god’s sake,” Sherlock said. 

“There were _eyes_ in the microwave,” the woman said. “They looked like human eyes.” 

“They were for a _case_ ,” Sherlock said. “John, they were for a case.” Well, John thought, fair enough. Sherlock had said something about body parts in one of his emails. 

“John,” Lestrade said, “these are Sergeants Donovan and Anderson. My team. Sorry, again, but we needed to talk to Sherlock. We’re letting him in on the case, but he can’t just go off on his own, and he can’t withhold evidence. Sherlock, we have more evidence. Shall we let Dr. Watson finish his dinner? We can talk outside.” 

“No,” said Sherlock. “He’s my partner. He knows about the case, and he’s a doctor. What did you find?” 

John sat up straighter and pushed the remains of the veal away. Ready for battle. 

“We found Rachel.” 

“Who is Rachel?” John asked. 

“She’s the victim’s daughter. Jennifer Wilson’s only daughter.” 

“Why would she write her daughter’s name? She wrote her daughter’s name in the floor with her fingernails when she was about to die, John. Why? Lestrade you need to bring her in. I need to question her.” 

“Can’t,” said Lestrade. “She’s dead. Technically she was never alive. Rachel was stillborn fourteen years ago.” 

“That’s not right,” Sherlock said, sounding puzzled. “Why would she do that?” 

“Never mind that,” said the man named Anderson. “According to someone, the murderer has the suitcase, and we found it in the flat of our favourite psychopath.” 

“Oi!” John said. “He’s not a murderer, and he’s not a psychopath. He’s bloody brilliant, and if you can’t keep a civil tongue in your head, you can get the hell out of my room. All of you. Now.” John regretted that they weren’t allowing him to put weight on his left leg, since it was still healing from the vein harvesting. He regretted it, but that twat Anderson should be bloody grateful for it or he would have been flat on his back on the cool linoleum floor just about now. Asshole. 

They all turned to look at John. The three intruders looked as if a small, harmless dog had suddenly bared its teeth at them and started foaming at the mouth. Sherlock stopped pacing and sat back down in the bedside chair. “I’m a high-functioning sociopath, John. Anderson never does his research,” he said in a low voice, looking only at John. John shook his head. They’d have to have that conversation in private. This man was no sociopath. 

“She didn’t just _think_ about her daughter, John. She scratched her name on the floor with her fingernails. She was dying. It took effort. It would have hurt. Why would she have done that?” He was focused on John, ignoring everyone else. 

“Well, you said that the victims all took the poison themselves, that he _makes_ them take it somehow. Maybe he… talks to them? Maybe he used her daughter’s death somehow.” 

“But that was ages ago. Why would she still be upset?” 

John stared at him. To be fair, there was a lot that he didn’t know about his partner. He was brilliant, but he had said himself that he was a sociopath. 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “Not good?” His voice was soft. Uncertain. The words fell, broken, into the sudden silence. 

John smiled for Sherlock alone. He shrugged and kept his voice light. “Bit not good, yeah,” he said. 

Sherlock cocked his head and continued to look at John. “But if you were dying… If you’d been murdered: in your very last few seconds what would you say?” 

“Please, God, let me live.” That was still fresh in John’s mind. The dull thud of mortars. The screams of the wounded. The smell of fuel and blood. The gurgling from the torn throat of the woman on the ground in front of him. Civilian casualties were the worst. He knew he was losing her, and she was clutching one of his arms. She knew it too. Then it felt as if someone had hit him with a cricket bat. No pain, just impact. Then the blood spurted up from the artery in his shoulder. Bit not good, indeed. Please God, even if I don’t really believe in you, maybe you’re there. Let me live. 

“Oh, do use your imagination, John!” 

“I don’t have to,” John replied. Sherlock blinked, then his eyes flicked to John’s shoulder. Something unreadable crossed his face for the briefest of moments, then he bounced up from the chair and starting addressing the room at large. 

“But if you were clever, _really_ clever… Jennifer Wilson was running a string of lovers. She was clever… She’s trying to tell us something. But what? Anderson, turn around, I have to think. I can’t think with you staring; you lower the whole IQ of the room.” 

“Just a bloody minute…,” Anderson said. 

“Turn around, Anderson,” Lestrade said. He did. 

“Jennifer Wilson is cleverer than all of you,” Sherlock said, “and she’s dead. Do you see? She didn’t _lose_ her phone. She _planted_ it on him. When she got out of his car, she knew she was going to die. She left the phone to lead us to the killer.” He stopped pacing, a brilliant smile on his face. “Rachel!” 

John had no idea what he was talking about. From the puzzled expression on all the other faces in the room, neither did anyone else. 

Sherlock sighed. “Oh, look at you lot. You’re all so vacant. Is it nice not being me? It must be so restful. Rachel is not a _name_. Where’s her case, Lestrade. Please tell me it’s in your car.” 

Lestrade ran a hand through his bristly salt-and-pepper hair. “Yeah, it’s there. But it didn’t tell us anything.” 

“That’s because you’re all idiots.” 

“Don’t be a wanker,” said Lestrade, wearily. “We looked through it, you looked through it.” 

“Come on,” said Sherlock. “Luggage tag. Email address I’ll wager. She didn’t have a laptop. She did business on her phone. It’s a smartphone. E-mail enabled. GPS.” 

“My god,” said the woman, "we can track...." 

“Come _on_ ,” Sherlock interrupted, already halfway out the door. Suddenly the room was empty of everything except John, his half-eaten dinner, and a guttering candle. The excitement John had felt drained away. He had felt so alive when Sherlock was here. He had almost forgotten where he was. What he was. A wounded soldier who would probably never fight again. A wounded surgeon with nerve damage and an uncertain future. Useless. Fucking useless. 

“Damn my leg,” John muttered. “And damn my shoulder.” No-one had even said goodbye. The tiny candle flame flickered out.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The chase is on, and Sherlock demonstrates that he has more than one addiction.

Sherlock got to the car first. He hurled himself into the back seat and jerked the pink case onto the seat beside him. 

“Laptop, tablet, Ipad, something...” His phone battery was low, and he didn’t want to risk losing the fix on the victim’s phone. He looked up at Lestrade and Anderson, panting beside the car. “Quickly.” 

Sally made it to the car just then. High heels weren’t the best for police work, but Sherlock realized that the heels were part of Sally’s plan to rise high in the Met. She wanted to look both professional and sexy. Classy and dominant. She did have admirable legs. Why she was bothering with Anderson was still a mystery to him. Likely childhood issues. 

Donovan pushed Anderson aside, reached into a briefcase between Sherlock’s legs, and held out her IPad to him. 

“Web access?” 

“Yeah,” she said. He snatched it. 

“You’re welcome.” 

“Sit,” he said. 

“Well, budge over.” He did. The pink case was between them. 

“Read out the address when I get to the site.” His fingers flew over the Ipad screen. “Now.” 

“Jennie with an ‘ie.’ Dot pink. At mephone dot org dot uk,” Sally read. She looked up from the tag. “We don’t have her password.” 

How much of an idiot was she? Let’s see. “We do. You know it, Donovan. _Think_ for once.” 

“Rachel,” she whispered. Sherlock smiled at her. Not as idiotic as some, then. She actually smiled back, although it looked like it hurt her a bit to do it. He typed in “Rachel.” Voila. 

“What if he got rid of the phone?” she asked 

“We know he didn’t… We’re going to have to move fast. That phone battery won’t last forever. Drive, Lestrade.” Lestrade and Anderson hurried into the front seats and slammed their doors. 

“We’ll just have a map coordinate, not a name,” Lestrade said, pulling out of the handicapped spot where he had parked. “We don’t have a warrant to search…” 

“At least it’s a start. It’s the first real lead we’ve had…” Sherlock looked back down at the IPad. “Oh. That’s not possible.” 

“What?” 

Sherlock held the IPad out to Sally, showing the map location. Baker Street. The tiny red dot pulsed accusingly. It looked to be almost exactly at 221. 

“What?” Lestrade said from the front seat. He was already maneuvering through the access roads around the hospital. 

“The phone’s at Baker Street,” Sally said. 

“Like I said before,” Anderson muttered. “You said the murderer would have the case. The case was in your flat. You just said the murderer had the the phone. The phone’s in your flat.” 

Sherlock didn’t bother to reply to that. How was it at Baker Street? That made no sense. 

“Maybe it fell out of the case,” Sally said. 

“No. It was not _in_ the case. Do you think I’m an idiot? It wasn’t _there._ ” 

“Well, that IPad says it was,” Lestrade said. 

“And I didn’t notice it? _Me?_ _I_ didn’t notice it.” 

“Calm down, wonder boy,” Sally said. “Maybe you’re just human after all." 

Sherlock stared at her, puzzled. Her voice lacked its usual acid edge. She shrugged and looked away, but not before he saw her mouth quirk into a slight smile. Another one? Why? What had changed? He shook his head. Not the time to try to figure out Sally Donovan. Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. He was missing something. What was he missing? 

“Baker Street it is,” said Lestrade, and accelerated onto the A11. Sherlock retreated into his mind, blocking out the nattering going onto between the back seat and the front seat. He systematically went through everything he had done. Finding the case. Searching it at the flat. There was only one explanation for the phone being in Baker Street. The killer was there. At the flat. Suddenly he opened his eyes as adrenaline surged through him. The flat. Mrs. Hudson. 

The car had stopped. They were parked on Baker Street, a few doors down from 221. Parking was always difficult. Anderson and Sally had their doors open already. Sherlock grabbed Lestrade’s shoulder. 

“Wait,” Sherlock said. “Wait. He’s here. The killer. In the flat.” 

“Why would he be here?” Sally said, but not making a move to get out. “That doesn’t make any sense. He wouldn’t know you’re working on the case. Why…?” 

“He’s here,” Sherlock repeated. “It’s the only explanation. Mrs. Hudson could be in danger. Call for backup.” 

“Why do we need backup? There are four of us.” 

Heaven give him patience. Anderson was an idiot. “Do _you_ have a gun, Anderson?” Sherlock hissed. “ _He_ may. He may be holding my landlady hostage. We can’t risk it until we have backup.” 

“He’s right.” Lestrade sighed. “We need a hostage team.” 

Sherlock unfolded himself from the back seat. “I’m going in. If he’s here, that means it’s me he wants.” 

“That’s why you’re bloody well not going in,” Lestrade countered. “He’s killed four people already. We’ll call him on her phone. See what he wants. Call him, Sherlock. We’ll alert the hostage team.” 

He thought about gentle Mrs. Hudson up in his flat with a killer. His heart was pounding. He took a deep breath and nodded. Lestrade was already on his phone, shouting into it. Anderson and Donovan were talking. Too much noise. 

He got out of the car, pulled his phone out, and walked up the street toward the flat. He stopped under Speedy’s awning. Luckily he had programmed the number for Jennifer Wilson’s phone into his before he had changed his mind and had John text the killer from his new phone. He blinked. John. He had forgotten to say goodbye. God, he was shite at this partner thing. He had forgotten that the man existed. He pushed the thought away. Mrs. Hudson. Focus. 

Just then, headlights came on in a black car parked on the kerb in front of him. Then they winked off again. Not a car. A cab. Why had the victims gone with a stranger? Oh. Sherlock returned his phone to his pocket. He looked down the street. Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson were standing outside the car, gesticulating and arguing. All occupied. He walked over to the cab. 

The driver’s window slid down. “Taxi for Sherlock 'olmes.” Cockney accent. Ordinary face in profile. Tufts of grey hair showing under a flat cap. 

“I didn’t order a taxi.” The driver’s head turned. Glasses, cold light blue eyes. The killer. 

“Doesn’t mean you don’t need one,” he said. 

“You’re the cabbie, the one outside Northumberland Street. It was you, not your passenger.” 

“See, no-one thinks about the cabbie. Invisible, just the back of an 'ead.” He smiled. “Proper advantage for a serial killer.” 

“Is this a confession?” His eyes flicked back down the street. They still weren’t looking his way. But he had him now. Even if he tried to drive away, he had him. Description, cab number. It was over. 

“Sure,” the man said. “You can go get those coppers back there. Right now. I won’t even run. They can take me down.” 

“Why?” Why would he give himself up now? Why here? 

“ 'Cause you ain’t gonna do that.” 

“Am I not?” 

“Nah. 'Cause I didn’t kill those four people. I spoke to 'em. That’s all. Then they killed themselves. You’re gonna come with me. Otherwise, I’ll never tell how I did it. _You’ll_ never know how I did it. What I said. Yeah, you could stop me, but you’ll never know the truth. What kind of result do you care about? That’s the question. Let me take you for a ride. C'mon.” 

Really, this was most intriguing. “So that you can kill me?” he asked. 

“I don’t wanna kill you. I’ll just talk to you. Then you’ll kill yourself. Simple as that.” 

Not simple at all. Mrs. Hudson was safe. The cabbie had turned away from him, staring straight ahead. When he was small, Mycroft often told him that curiosity killed the cat. He itched with curiosity. It wasn’t enough to stop the killer. He had to know how. He had to know why. He felt the crystalline flow of his brain, the blessed surge of adrenaline. He felt light and focused, above everything. He loved serial killers, even more than he loved cocaine. The neuro-chemical effects were quite similar, although this might be even more dangerous. 

He slid into the back of the cab, not even looking back to determine whether any of the others had seen him leave. The cabbie pulled smoothly away from the kerb, lights still off.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock makes one bad decision and a couple of good ones. Sally makes a discovery.

Sally Donavan looked up the street just in time to see Sherlock enter a cab. It was almost all the way up Baker Street before the cab's lights came on. 

She wouldn’t have believed it if she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes. The tosser up and left without a word. She thought she had seen glimpses of a human being in the freakazoid over the last couple of hours. She’d even wondered if she was mistaken about him. He seemed different with his little doctor. Still a wanker, of course, but he talked to the man like a real person. He even smiled at him. That was the first time she had seen him smile, and it made his ridiculously long, pale face look quite nice. And he seemed genuinely worried about his landlady. She should have known better. 

“Lestrade, he’s gone.” 

“Who? What? No, not you… hang on.” Lestrade was still on the phone with the hostage team, but he looked up at that. “Who’s gone?” 

“The freak. Gone. Scarpered. Took-a-cab-up-the-street-gone.” Two Met SUV’s glided up to the kerb just then, and people with guns and radios started getting out. 

“Bloody hell,” said Lestrade. “He must have seen something, thought of something… We can’t take a chance with Mrs. Hudson. I’ll talk to the team. Sally, see if you can get a fix on the phone. See if it’s still in the flat.” 

She climbed into the back seat of their car. The IPad was still locked on the signal, and it was moving away from Baker Street. They’d been lured here for some reason. Her heart sank. Sherlock had been lured here, and now he had gone with the killer. For a genius, the man was an idiot. Certifiable. She’d been right about him all along. He didn’t care about anything except the hunt, and he didn’t care who suffered for his actions. 

She got out of the car and went over to Lestrade and stuck out the IPad. “He’s gone with the killer. We need to check on the landlady, but I don’t think he was ever actually in the flat. Killer was waiting in a cab, and the freak took the bait.” Silence fell in the little knot of police. 

“Christ on a crutch,” Lestrade said, running a hand over his spikey, greying hair. “You all wait here, she knows me,” said Lestrade. “Sally, you and Anderson see if you can figure out where they’re going.” She nodded. 

“At least let one of us cover you,” said a plainclotheswoman with a Glock already pulled. Lestrade nodded, and they went in. 

Five minutes later, they came out. 

“She was watching telly. No-body has bothered her. Nobody went into the flat upstairs. You guys, follow us.” 

Soon, trailed by two special unit SUVs, they were headed onto the A41. 

“He just turned onto the Outer Circle,” Sally said. 

“Where the hell are they going?” 

“Nice, quiet place for a murder, I’m afraid,” Sally replied, focused on the moving red dot. “York Bridge. Oh, god. Faster. I think I may know where they’re going.” 

“Where?” 

“Regent’s Park. Or it could be the training college in the park. You know, the one near the business school. Deserted at night. Or there are all sorts of places in the park he could drag him. Hurry.” 

Lestrade accelerated, weaving in and out of traffic to much irate blowing of horns. 

“He?” Anderson asked. 

“Serial killer,” said Sally. “Far more likely.” 

~~~~~ 

The cab stopped. Two identical buildings. 

“Where are we, Mr. Hope?” 

“You know every street in London, you do. The cabbies talk about it, say you’ve got the Knowledge. You know _exactly_ where we are. 

“Roland-Kerr Further Education College. Why here?” 

“It’s open, cleaners are in. One thing about being a cabbie: you always know a nice quiet spot for a murder. I had several alternatives, but I thought you’d enjoy the ride through the park.” 

“Considerate of you,” Sherlock said. “And your victims just go with you.” 

“Yeah, they do.” Hope raised a pistol and smirked. 

Ah, that would explain it, thought Sherlock. He forced them to take the poison at gunpoint. Really, he had been hoping for something more creative. 

“Dull.” 

“You haven’t heard the whole thing yet. You won’t think it’s dull. That may be the last thought you have. Don’t even need this with you.” The cabbie put the gun back in his jacket. “You’ll follow me.” With that, he walked away. 

During the ride across London, Hope said that he had a sponsor. That sponsor was a fan of Sherlock’s. He was intrigued and chilled in equal measure. Someone who sponsored serial killings and tracked the detective’s career. Hardly anyone read his blog, the Science of Deduction. The Met kept his involvement quite low-key. Why was this “sponsor” interested in Sherlock? Even if the police caught Hope, there was no guarantee he would expose this mysterious person. Sherlock needed more data. 

He followed the cabbie into one of the buildings, and up a flight of dark stairs. Hope opened a door and stood aside, gesturing for him to go in. It was a large room. Long wooden benches, whiteboards, plastic chairs. Classroom. 

“Well, what do you think?” 

Sherlock thought that this wasn’t the setting he would have chosen for his death. But then he wasn’t going to die. 

“It’s up to you,” Hope said. “You’re the one’s gonna die here.” 

“I’m not.” 

“That’s what they all say. Have a seat. Let’s talk.” The man sat heavily in one of the plastic chairs. Sherlock took a chair across from him. 

“Bit risky, wasn’t it? You took me away under the eye of about half a dozen policemen.” 

“You call that a risk? Nah. Now this…” 

Suddenly there was a small bottle sitting on the table between them. Glass, pill bottle. One large capsule inside. 

Hope chuckled. “This is a risk. I love this part. You don’t get it yet, do you? Even you, the great Sherlock 'olmes.” 

He reached into a pocket and set another bottle on the table. The room was silent, except for the small sound of the glass bottle making contact with the wooden table. Identical bottle. One capsule. 

“You’ll appreciate this. None of the others did, but you will. You’re brilliant. A proper genius. That website of yours is something.” 

“What am I to appreciate? That you’re a proper genius, too? You’re just another killer.” 

“You’re wrong,” Hope said. “You’re wrong 'cause I give everyone a fair chance to outsmart me. And I take the same chance as they do. There’s a good bottle and a bad bottle. You take the pill from the good bottle, you live; take the pill from the bad bottle, you die. I play fair. It’s your choice. You pick whichever you like. I’ll take the other one. Come on. I want your best game.” 

Sherlock looked at the bottles. Well, he had to hand it to the man, it was a different angle on serial killing. Strangely sporting. He was sorry to disappoint him. 

“Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not taking either one. It’s not a game. It’s just chance.” But if Hope was telling the truth, it wasn’t chance. If he had really killed four people this way, the odds were impossible. How did he do it? 

“It’s not chance, and you know it. I’ve killed four people. It’s not chance, it’s chess. One move. One survivor. And here’s the move.” 

Hope slid the bottle closest to himself across the table until it sat in front of Sherlock. 

“Did I just give you the good bottle or the bad bottle? Choose either one.” He smiled. “Everyone is so stupid. Even you.” 

Suddenly Sherlock thought of the library at home, on a summer day in Hampshire. The window was open, a soft breeze ruffling the lace curtain. He was eight. Mycroft, back from Eton, was sitting across a chessboard. 

“Pay attention, Sherlock.” Mycroft reached over and picked up the black pawn that Sherlock had just taken from him. “Look at the board. Was this pawn’s position a bluff? Or a double-bluff? In five moves you’ll have a rook and pawn threatening my king. Look at the sixth rank and think for once.” 

He only saw it when his brother practically rubbed his nose in it. Mycroft could see so much further ahead. 

“Really,” the young Mycroft said. “You’re such a stupid little boy. I don’t know why I bother.” 

“I’m _not_ stupid,” Sherlock remembered insisting. He had been, though, at least compared to Mycroft. 

“Time to play.” Hope’s voice jerked him back to the present. 

Sherlock took a deep breath, and shoved the memory of that summer day far back down into his mind palace. He sat up straight and leaned toward the man. 

“Oh, I _am_ playing. This is _my_ move. There’s shaving foam behind your left ear. Nobody’s pointed it out to you. You live on your own. There was a photograph of children in your cab, but the mother was cut out. So not dead, just… deserted? Photo’s old, but the frame is new. You love your children, but you don’t get to see them. Estranged father. And it hurts.” The cabbie looked down. So he was right. But there was more. He felt the song of adrenaline in his veins, that heavenly feeling of connections sparking in his mind. There was so much more. 

“Clothes recently laundered, but they’re two, no… three years old. Not planning for the future. You’re dying. Oh….” Oh, this was delightful, it really was. “Your sponsor. He’s paying you by the kill. You get money to leave your children, he gets my attention. Charming.” 

“You’re really as good as he told me you were,” Hope said, looking up. “Yeah, you’re right. About all of it. Aneurysm under my skull. Any breath I take may be my last. I may be a killer, but I love my kids. I did it for the money. And, I’ll admit, it’s been fun outlivin’ those people. Quite the game it’s been.” 

“Who is this sponsor of yours?” 

“That’s a name no-one says. I’m not gonna say it either. It’d be as much as my life’s worth. It’s not worth much, I’ll admit, but I’d rather go natural-like. I will tell you this much. My sponsor has a taste for unnatural death, that’s for sure. But enough chat. Time to choose.” 

“What if I don’t choose either? I could just walk out of here.” 

Hope lifted the pistol. “No, you can’t. You can play the game, or I’ll shoot you in the 'ead.” 

Sherlock sighed. This was getting tedious, time to end it. 

“Do you think I don’t know a real gun from a fake. Please.” 

“None of the others did,” Hope replied, sounding miffed. 

“Ah, but you and I are geniuses, are we not? I’ll just call the police, shall I? I look forward to the court case.” Well, this _had_ been interesting. 

“I won’t run. But before you go, tell me the truth. Did you figure it out? All the others were so stupid, but I was hoping you’d be more of a challenge.” 

Mycroft’s voice echoed in his mind. He had made Sherlock play out the game since he obviously needed the practice. Sherlock tipped over his shining white king. His hand hardly trembled. Mycroft stood up. 

“I was hoping you’d give me more of a challenge,” he said and left the room. Sherlock had sat there for a long time, looking out the window, refusing to look at the wreck he had made of his gallant knights and stately bishops. 

Sherlock strode over to the table, picked up the bottle nearest the cabbie, screwed open the lid, and tipped the capsule into his hand. 

“Interesting,” said Hope. He stood, reached for the other bottle across the table. He shook the pill out into his hand, and came to stand facing Sherlock. 

“That’s the spirit,” he said. “Shall we? Are you clever enough to bet your life, or are you just as much of an idiot as the others?” 

Sherlock lifted the pill, like a priest holding the host up to the altar. He lived for this, for the risk of everything, for the game. It was the only time he felt really alive, except when he was very, very high. He smiled and brought the pill toward his mouth. The cabbie mirrored his action. 

Except. Sherlock’s hand froze. Except that wasn’t quite true. He felt alive when he was with John. When John looked at him, talked to him. Smiled at him. What if he had gotten it wrong? 

The cabbie said softly, “C’mon. You’d do anything at all, anything to stop being bored.” 

Anything? Was that true? Even leave John alone in that hospital room? Leave him to recover alone? Leave him to that drunk harpy of a sister? Sherlock had never been important to anyone, really. Was it possible that his life or death might matter to John Watson? 

Suddenly, he threw the pill aside, spun Hope around, and put an arm around the man’s throat in a chokehold. 

“Not _anything_ ,” he hissed. He didn’t know who was more surprised at that statement, Hope or himself. “Now I want the name of your sponsor.” 

“No,” rasped Hope. Sherlock tightened his hold. 

“You’re killing me.” He could barely force the words out. 

He wouldn’t. Probably. But the man didn’t know that. He jerked his arms tighter. 

“Moriarty,” Hope finally choked out. Then he lost consciousness. His dead weight took them both to the floor. 

Before Sherlock could even get up, he heard feet pounding down the hall. 

Lestrade, Donovan, Anderson, and various black-clad individuals entered at a run. Some of them had guns out. Real guns this time. They skidded to a halt at the sight of Sherlock and the man on the floor. 

“I didn’t kill him,” Sherlock said. 

“Are you alright?” Lestrade’s voice was divided between fear and anger. 

Sherlock nodded. “He didn’t kill me, either. It was a brilliant scheme, he did talk them into killing themselves.” Sherlock stood and dusted himself off. Really, they should be more careful about the floor. He was going to have to get the Belstaff cleaned. 

“Are you _insane_?” Lestrade yelled. Sherlock took a step back. Why was Lestrade upset? He had caught the killer, hadn’t he? 

“No,” he said, drawing it out. 

“Then why did you go with him, you fucking _idiot_?” Sally was standing, hands on her hips, glaring at him. 

“Ah. It seemed a good opportunity to get a confession?” It didn’t sound convincing, even to his own ears. 

~~~~~ 

Lestrade, Anderson, and the others were leaving to book the now conscious and snarling Hope. Sally was surprised when Sherlock asked, quite meekly, whether she could drive him back to the hospital so that he could let John know what had happened. He agreed to let her take his statement there. 

“You ok with that, Donovan?” Lestrade asked. 

“Sure, why not.” She had a line of investigation of her own that she wanted to pursue. 

She drove for several minutes in silence. Sherlock looked exhausted, but she didn’t intend to let him off the hook even though she felt kind of sorry for him at the moment. She might never have a chance like this again. 

“So, you know that you were an absolute, unmitigated tosser to go with him like that?” She carefully looked straight ahead at the traffic. 

“If I hadn’t gone with him, we might never have caught him. He might have killed other people.” 

“We do know how to do our jobs. We would have caught him.” 

She heard a disdainful sniff from Sherlock’s side of the car, but he didn’t contradict her. 

“What took you so long getting there?” he asked. 

“Had to check on your landlady first. That put us behind. Then once we got to the park, we thought we had the cab for a bit. Turned out to be someone going to the indoor tennis courts. When we found the right cab, we picked the wrong building. But we got there.” 

“Eventually. He had a gun. He could have killed me.” 

“And whose fault was that? It was a fake gun, anyway, you idiot. And you came closer to killing yourself. Two pills. You were going to take one, weren’t you? Anything to prove what a genius you are.” 

He didn’t immediately contradict her. Then the voice, low and soft. “I… considered it.” 

“But you didn’t.” 

A strangely companionable silence fell over the car. Sally thought back to Dr. Watson’s hospital room. She had seen Sherlock pause in his dizzying rant about Jennifer Wilson’s still-born daughter. Why would she still be upset, he asked. That summed him up, didn’t it? He just didn’t get it, didn’t get them. Ordinary human beings. People who were sad, lonely, fallible. He always ran over those cracks, like running on air, not touching the soiled concrete that the rest of them had to walk on. But then she had seen him pause and look at his little doctor-partner, and that was a whole other thing. He paused, his voice uncertain. He had actually realized something was wrong. “A bit not good,” the man in the hospital bed confirmed. Then he had smiled for Sherlock alone. It had been a very sweet smile. The freak had actually smiled back at him. He had looked almost normal, somehow. 

“Sherlock,” she said. She realized she had never called him by his name before. She felt suddenly ashamed. 

He gave an ambiguous grunt. She glanced at him. He was looking out the window, not at her. 

“Sherlock,” she said again. “If I deduce why you didn’t take that pill, would you admit it if I’m right?” She emphasized the word “deduce.” She hadn’t gone totally soft, and he was still a tosser. 

He sighed. “Yes, Sally.” 

“You didn’t want to leave Dr. Watson alone if you were wrong.” 

“I wasn’t wrong,” he said. 

“That’s not the point,” she said. 

“What _is_ the point?” He sounded very tired, and a bit petulant, like a child that had stayed up past its bedtime. 

That was a fair question, Sally thought. She took a deep breath. 

“I liked Dr. Watson,” she said. “And you’re…” How to put it in a way that wasn’t as insulting as she usually was? “And you’re better with him. You didn’t want to mess him up if you died. Am I right?” 

Sherlock groaned. If Sally could have high-fived herself, she would have done. 

“Caring is not an advantage,” Sherlock said. 

“Who said something as stupid as that?” That was as close as Sherlock was ever going to get to saying she was right. She tried not to smile, and she kept her eyes on the road. She didn’t want to embarrass him more than she had already. 

There was a long pause. Then, very faint, “My brother.” 

“Well, he’s an idiot.” 

Sherlock actually laughed. It sounded sort of creaky, like he hadn’t had much practice, but it was nice. 

“Sally, is this going to be the beginning of a beautiful friendship?” 

“Of course it is. You like him, and I can tell he likes you. And, I’m thinking, it might be more than friendship.” 

There was a long pause. 

“Perhaps.” Another long pause. “Sally?” 

“Yeah?” 

“That’s not what I meant. I meant… us.” 

Oh. That was…unexpected. She actually had to clear her throat to answer him. Damn. 

“I’d like that. To be friends. If you can forgive me for calling you a freak. I just didn’t understand. I’m really sorry.” 

“I’ve never had friends before. I’m probably not going to be very good at it,” he said. 

Well, damn again, she thought. She sniffed. 

“Did I say something wrong? I’m always saying the wrong thing.” 

“Nope,” she said. “We’re good. Now tell me how you knew you had the right bottle.” 

He perked up at that. Back on solid ground. The next ten minutes were filled with that deep voice going on and on and on about chess moves and end games and something about _Princess Bride_. He was _such_ a freak, but now she thought it was kind of cute in a bizarre way. 

Then the voice stopped abruptly in mid-sentence. When it started again, it said, “Chinese. We need to stop for Chinese. The food at the hospital is egregiously bad. John needs to keep his strength up. He might want a snack.” 

“It’s after eleven o’clock,” Sally said. 

“Aren’t you hungry? I’m starving.” He sounded strangely surprised at the discovery. 

“Me, too. Get on your phone and find somewhere near the hospital. We’ll get takeaway.” 

“I can always predict the fortune cookies,” he said. 

“No you can’t,” Sally said. “Don’t be ridiculous.” She looked over at Sherlock. He was bent over his phone, but she caught the smile. John Watson, she thought, might just be a very lucky man.


	13. note to readers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> what's happening next...

Just a note to those of you who have been following and/or subscribed to this. I decided that this part was complete in itself, so I'm making it into a series. There will be at least two other parts to the series - part 2 will be 'wrapped around' a retelling of The Blind Banker in this AU and part 3 will wrap around a retelling of The Great Game. If you'd like to keep following, you can just keep an eye out or subscribe to the series. Real-life (aka end of semester madness) has hit, so part 2 will start in a couple of weeks.


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